


Pride and Publishing

by AquaMarinara



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Modern Era, Social Media, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaMarinara/pseuds/AquaMarinara
Summary: “He does what again?” Betty asks yet another time as she chews on a piece of toast on the morning of the big event. She takes her last bite while simultaneously pulling her denim skirt on over her tights. She’s late for the bagel delivery already.Veronica sips lightly on her mimosa—celebratory champagne, and all. “Runs a publishing house. Pendleton Publishing, if I recall. Inherited the business from a relative—his grandfather or other. Nepotism at its finest, no?”Betty’s fingers still halfway through buttoning up her coat. “Pendleton Publishing House, of Baxter Brothers and Tracy True fame?”“I’ve no idea, but he’s rich to be sure.”Or, all the AUs rolled into one.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 205
Kudos: 188
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards — Winners!





	1. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ithoughtyoulikedmereckless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithoughtyoulikedmereckless/gifts).



> Hello my darlings!
> 
> This fic was supposed to be out by Christmas, as a Meme Minors Secret Santa gift for @ithoughtyoulikedmereckless (so sorry for being so late, Rach), but it is only finally ready now. C'est la vie, you know?
> 
> Thank you so much to @redundantoxymorons and @justcourbeau for beta'ing, despite the fact that I added on a bunch of scenes after they had finished doing so. (If you spot any mistakes in the latter half of the chapter, that's all on me. Let me know and I'll fix them up asap!)
> 
> Catch you on the flip side!

A light gust of summer wind swirls through her ponytail, and Betty shuts her eyes tighter as she feels the ground shift underneath her. Toes wedge into the mat, shoulders tense, and knees sink lower to the ground.

“Easy, B,” Veronica reprimands lowly, hand extending out from her own eagle pose. “Don’t fight gravity. Find harmony with it.”

Betty breathes out, heavily, through her nose. Whatever Veronica’s been mixing into her kombucha recently, well—Betty should probably start drinking some of that.

(Maybe it would even sell at the coffee shop. She’ll have to ask her about it later.)

“—Two, one.” Veronica counts down the seconds until their next pose under her breath, and then the two of them stand tall in Imitation Tree. Betty tries to calm her mind down again, picturing a blackened 3-D space in her mind, bits of junk floating through it. One by one, each thought clears out as she focuses on the blank space, and her shoulders lower, relaxed.

The sun warms her skin, still low in the sky as it rises in the early morning, and Betty inhales the smell of fresh dew. It’s serene, this summer ritual of theirs. There’s only one thing missing this morning.

“Oh my God, you won’t even believe!”

And there it is. Betty’s eyes flit open, vision struggling not to blur against the emerging sunlight. Veronica’s nose wrinkles as the smell of sex and sweat floods the courtyard of their apartment complex.

“Ew, Kevin, even Joey Tribbiani knew to shower.” Veronica’s eyebrows arch over the rim of her sunglasses. 

“Would you relax, Ms. Waldorf?” He scoffs, running his hands excitedly through his mussed-up hair. His yoga mat is nowhere to be seen. “Your apartment’s on my way home, and I just had to come see you ladies asap. You know, now that I think about it, I totally could’ve texted you both, but this isn’t news you just casually send to the group chat, you know?”

Veronica stares at him blankly, both feet now planted heavily on her mat. Her eyes burn through the lenses of her glasses, expectant. __

He takes a deep breath. “Remember that garden snake I’ve been hooking up with recently?”

Betty nods. Kevin had always had a thing for the tall, dark, and mysterious, and one of the new Serpent recruits from Ohio had been his choice for the summer. He’d never been afraid of a forked tongue, in more ways than one.

“He’s been hired to weed out the entire Blossom mansion by the first of September!”

“Someone finally bought that dump?” Veronica’s arms cross over her sports bra, but Betty can tell she’s intrigued. The place had been abandoned since they could all remember. In high school, kids would jump the wrought-iron fence to smoke weed and hide drugs on the property. It had been more than a few years since they’d all been in high school, but she’s sure today’s teens aren’t all that different.

No wonder the new tenants were giving cleaning staff over a month to get it ready again.

“Could you imagine? No, no, some of the Blossoms just recently inherited it. Why they wouldn’t just tear the place down and start over is beyond me.”

“Who inherited it?” Betty hears herself ask, only vaguely recalling the recent death of the Blossom Maple Syrup patriarch being mentioned in the news. 

Kevin’s face lights up at her question. “A pair of cousins, actually. Cheryl Blossom.” Kevin pauses for dramatic effect, watching Veronica’s eyebrows retreat farther into her hairline.  _ Cheryl Blossom the socialite? Moving to Riverdale? _ “And Archie Andrews, that dude who dropped out of the NFL draft to get signed to a record label?” 

Veronica knows exactly who he’s talking about, if the cheshire grin that graces her lips is anything to go by.

When Betty looks him up on instagram later, she’s not surprised by Kevin and Veronica’s excitement at all. Those abs and that jawline, plus a guitar? High school Betty would have been drooling over him too. Twenty-three-year-old Betty, on the other hand, wonders what the hell someone like him is doing in their tiny upstate New York town.

~~~

When Archie Andrews releases his newest single “I’ll Try” on instagram, Betty’s dms flood with messages. Kevin’s are just a bunch of keysmashes and tongue emojis. The others are from Veronica, who sends her Archie’s latest post. It’s a picture of him strumming a guitar up on stage, shirtless, as if his audience has front-row seats to a very private talent show, and the caption advertises that “I’ll Try” is now available to stream on Hotify. 

**ronlodge**

did u listen to it??

amazing, right?

To be quite honest, Betty hadn’t been able to get past the first twenty-or-so seconds available for preview when she’d looked him up those few weeks ago.

sure

Betty can almost hear her best friend’s huff of frustration.

**ronlodge**

don’t be a grouch and help me plan the welcome party?

u don’t even have to show if you don’t want 2!

I absolutely forbid them from having a terrible first impression of Riverdale

and they’ll be here so soon

Betty sighs, but likes Veronica’s last text anyway to let her know she’s agreed. She’ll need to call up the mayor and book out Pickins Park for the event. Veronica’s sure to handle the guest list, and Betty can take care of the catering. Cupcakes wouldn’t be too hard. Maybe she’ll use this as an opportunity to advertise her new carrot cake and cream cheese frosting recipe.

Betty writes down the list of ingredients she’ll need for the party on the back of a random receipt laying around on her desk, chin heavy in the palm of her other hand.

“B?” Ethel peeks her head in through the door to her office. “When will we have another batch of the cranberry scones ready?”

“They should be out of the oven in…” Betty checks the timer on her phone. “Ten? Can the customer wait that long?”

“For your scones? Are you kidding? I’d wait a lifetime.”

Betty chuckles, still not used to Ethel’s unrelenting support, even after all these years. “Thanks, Eth.”

“No problem, Betty.”

Her phone chimes, and Betty checks it quickly before getting back to work in the kitchen. She has one notification, and it makes her laugh even harder.

(bcoops): kkeller69: perhaps Troy Bolton’s real?

She doesn’t respond.

~~~

Betty skips out on the welcome party, citing exhaustion and an overall lack of enthusiasm for plastering on any more smiles that day. She sends Ethel with the cupcakes, knowing that her best barista will charm enough party-goers for the both of them. From what she hears (and sees on Veronica’s instagram story), the event goes well enough.

When Veronica gets invited to the Blossoms’ first big bash, Betty sends her off with Kevin. She’s got two bags of microwavable popcorn from the minimart on the coffee table in front of her, and a bunch of it in one hand.

“B!” Veronica screeches through the phone, definitely already drunk. “He’s adooooorabllle. Like a—like a—a—what are those dogs called?”

“Which dogs, V? Who are we talking about?”

“Archiekins, of course!”

Betty winces at the outburst, then the nickname. She really hopes Archie hadn’t heard her.

“Are you with someone right now, V? Are you going to be okay?”

“Don’t even, B! I’ll be fiiiiiiiiine!” Betty hears a thud from the other side of the phone as someone collides into Veronica, and then she bites out: “Hey! Watch it, mister!” Glass shatters somewhere in the background.

“You’re sure? Where’s Kevin?”

“Upstairs, with Garden Sn—oh, Archie! Archie’s here, Betty.” Her voice becomes muffled, as if she’s speaking away from the phone. “You’ll take care of me, right, Archiekins?” Betty can’t hear his response, if there even is one, and her fingers tighten around the cell phone.

The lights above her blur, and Betty gulps in a breath of air when Archie Andrews’ chipper voice finally comes through her speaker. “I’ll keep an eye on her, and she’ll be fine, uh, Betty is it?”

“Yeah, it is. And thanks, Archie. I can come pick her up later.” She knows it’s selfish of her, but she’s currently wrapped in a robe and tucked into three blankets as the CW’s new Tracy True show queues up on the DVR, and she’d rather not have to get up to pick up her drunk friend right now. She should’ve known better than to trust Kevin with taking care of Veronica at Riverdale’s biggest party of the year, maybe ever.

“Don’t worry about it. Cher’s driver can drop her off in a few hours, if that works for you.”

“That would be great, Archie.” Betty reaches forward for more popcorn, tipping precariously on the edge of the couch in her restricting bundle of blankets. She hears Veronica screech loudly on the other side of the phone. Someone’s apparently just been iced. “We’re at the Pembrooke, in case she forgets. I’ll take her from the lobby.”

“Sure thing, Betty.”

She’s fast-forwarding through a commercial break when her phone chimes with a notification from tumblr.

@three-of-kings, one of her all-time favorite authors, has reblogged some advice on writing better character descriptions using “negative space”, and Betty likes the post before adding it to her queue.

~~~

The car tires crunch over gravel as Betty pulls into the Whyte Wyrm’s parking lot, Ethel next to her in the passenger seat. Both are wearing clothes stained from their shifts at the coffee shop—they hadn’t bothered to change after one of the longest days Betty can remember since opening day.

The instant pot had nearly exploded during the lunch rush, as Betty had tried venting it before it had fully de-pressurized. She’d only narrowly avoided a steam burn in the process.

Too many customers had grabbed drinks that weren’t theirs, then complained.

They’d run out of cream cheese for their bagels way too early in the afternoon. Luckily, Kevin had been driving by the shop on break and picked up some extra cream cheese at the minimart for them. Even more luckily, Ethel had been working the counter all day, greeting each new customer cheerily and graciously dealing with those who caused more issues than Betty’s migraine could handle.

It’s a late Friday night and most of the Serpents have already staked their claims on the tables in the place, so the two of them head for the bar stools, ignoring the looks from the leather-jacket wearing gang behind them. 

Betty knows that if Ethel’s burgundy skater dress and tights don’t match the bar’s vibe then her own peach pink, heart-patterned sweater and light wash jeans are definitely not welcome. She also knows that she needs a drink, or two, or five, and she’s willing to pay. No Serpent’s going to keep her from the tequila tonight.

She’s staring the bartender down as he slides a few beers on tap along the counter when Ethel shouts into her ear over the thump of the music. “How’s the book coming along, B?”

She turns, shrugs quickly. With the coffee shop, and Polly, and her mother, Betty hasn’t had the mental energy to read, let alone write. She knows exactly what she wants to say, how each scene should go, but the words won’t come together when she stares at a blank page, and so reblogging quotes and writing advice on tumblr feels easier. She tells herself she’s learning with every new post she reads—especially ones penned by authors whose work she admires—but she’s yet to see all that knowledge transform itself into written pages.

Ethel slumps slightly beside her. “If you need me to take more shifts at the shop, or maybe sign off on the deliveries in the morning—if that would help—”

Betty interrupts her quickly, ponytail swishing to the side and landing against her neck. “No, Ethel. You already do so much. It isn’t the shop, really. If anything, it’s me. I haven’t been inspired to string words together in months, even though I know exactly what I want to say. Every sentence just takes so much out of me. Every line could take the story in a completely different direction, and what if the directions I haven’t even thought of yet would be better than the ones I’ve planned? What if—”

The bartender stares at her expectantly, and Betty quickly orders two tequila shots before turning back to her friend.

“Sorry, can I see ID?”

She doesn’t understand, at first, and repeats his words back dumbly. “Can you see—” Betty laughs quickly, almost in disbelief. At him for asking, at herself for not thinking to take it out earlier—she isn’t quite sure if it’s one, or the other, or both. She should probably be flattered that he thinks she still looks that young. “Of course, yeah, I just—One sec, Ethel. I have to find my wallet again.” She searches through her bag, shoving random makeup products and old receipts aside, open chapstick streaking against her hand, and Betty’s face contorts as she swears under her breath.

Her wallet really shouldn’t be this hard to find. If only she’d clean out her bucket purse every once in a while. If only she actually made those budgeting spreadsheets and tracked her spending with all the receipts she keeps like she always means to. If only she had the time to write, to think.

“Betty?”

“What?” she snaps, eyes widening as Ethel recoils. “Oh God, Ethel, I’m sorry for getting so upset. It’s been a long day, but that’s no excuse.” Her hands come up to rub at her temples, chapstick transferring to her hair, and Ethel waves her to the bathroom.

“I’ll find it, Betty, and I’ve got the bill, no worries.”

Betty stares at herself in the grimy mirror, fingers scrubbing frantically at her skin under the scalding stream of the sink. The water temperature seems to have two settings—ice cold or boiling hot. Betty prefers the latter.

Splotches of burnt black amongst a foggy gray cloud the mirror, but her tired eyes are reflected back perfectly. Her skin sags just slightly at her cheeks, her lips thin and flaking. She’ll have to apply more chapstick later.

“Get yourself together, Betty,” she whispers harshly. Snapping at Ethel, losing her mind out there—she needed to get a grip. Sure, life hadn’t been going as planned lately. Whose life did?

She turns the knob to freezing and splashes water against her face, readjusts her ponytail, and pulls the hem of her sweater lower on her jeans before opening the door to loud music and drunken shouts.

_ Keep it together. _

~~~

Betty returns to a deserted bar top. The bartender, eyeing her suspiciously, points her in the direction of a booth hidden by two pool tables and the crowds surrounding them. Betty shoots him a grateful smile and turns, only to find Ethel surrounded by two other women. She recognizes one immediately, but the other is a total stranger.

“B!” Veronica shouts as she spots her over her shoulder. “Hey! Ethel texted me that you guys were out for drinks, and we thought we’d meet you here. This is Cheryl Blossom.” A manicured nail points to the redhead, who turns sharply in her seat, eyes narrowing. “Cher, this is Betty Cooper, my roommate and local businesswoman.” She studies Betty quickly. “As you could probably tell by the stains all over her sleeves.” Veronica sends her a disapproving look. “Betty runs the coffee shop on Main Street.”

Betty slides into the booth easily, grabbing the shot nearest her and draining it. Her eyes squint with a wince. “Nice to meet you, Cheryl.”

The other woman nods slowly. “Likewise, Betty Draper.”

Ethel shoots Betty a look that can only mean  _ Sorry, I didn’t know she’d be coming too. _

“Ah, it’s Cooper.” Her voice is hoarse. From the tequila, from the day, from Cheryl’s death glare tightening her throat.

“I know what it is.”

“Drinks! On me!” Veronica saves the day the only way she knows how, but Betty can’t be anything but thankful.

“Who’s in the mood for some chaos?” Cheryl grins, sharpened nails tapping heavily on the table. Ethel picks at the lip of her glass—a gin and tonic—while Betty focuses on applying some chapstick. Veronica’s too busy hunting down a server to respond. “How about a few rounds of Never Have I Ever to get to know each other better.” Her eyes are glinting, a predator on the prowl, but Betty can’t help but grin back now. Her days of fearing party games are long gone.  _ Bring it on. _

“Never have I ever gotten carded,” Cheryl starts.

Betty grabs the second shot off the table and downs it immediately. She isn’t ashamed. Not really. “Never have I ever been in handcuffs,” she adds. 

Cheryl shrugs, grabbing a drink off of the tray that a waiter sets on the table. “Your loss, then.”

Ethel blanches when it’s her turn, and squirms in her seat. “Uh. Never have I ever kissed a girl?”

The three other girls all take a sip of their new vodka crans. Cheryl’s brow arches as Veronica and Betty giggle across the table from each other. “What’s so funny?”

Veronica sets her hand on Betty’s. “The first day we met each other—I kissed her. To get a bully off our backs. And it worked, too.”

Betty nods, her body starting to buzz after so many drinks in such a short amount of time. She’ll have to stop soon, or else tonight’s going to be an absolute disaster. 

“Never have I ever worn clothes to cover a hickey.”

“V, that’s pointed!” Betty exclaims, already reaching to take a sip of Ethel’s gin and tonic. Her own vodka cran’s somehow disappeared, and she really can’t do another shot if she wants to remember the rest of the night.

“It’s not my fault you’re a turtleneck kind of girl! Ice and concealer, babe, and preferably a top that shows off exactly what you’ve got going on underneath all those sweaters.” Ethel nods in support of the advice, and Veronica smirks.

Cheryl’s eyes seem to scan the air between them all before landing back on Veronica. Betty rolls her eyes. Her foot goes numb under the table.

“Never have I ever been on a Tinder date.”

For the first time all night, Ethel takes a gulp of her drink. 

“Ethel!” Betty exclaims, nearly falling off the edge of the bench seat. “How unexpected!”

“Not really, Betty,” comes her quiet response, face still pinched at the burn of the alcohol sliding down her throat. “We’re all searching for someone, right? And what kind of meet-cute am I expected to have in a town where we’ve all known each other since infancy? I expanded my search a bit, went on a date with a guy from Centreville last week.”

Betty feels two pieces click together in her brain, however fuzzy they appear in her mind’s eye. “That’s why you asked me for the night off? You could have told me you were going on a date!”

Ethel’s hands drop to her lap, her gaze following them for a second before catching Betty’s once again. “Not really—I mean, you’re always supportive and all, but you and I have such different outlooks on love, Betty. I don’t need 'the one’ to show up at my door any time soon, or ever. I can be happy without him.”

“I can be happy without a guy!” Betty interrupts, arms coming up in defense.

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“I’ve always told you, B,” Veronica finally jumps in, nodding along with Ethel. “You’ve got really high standards, but that isn’t a bad thing.” Her fingers fall reassuringly over Betty’s own arm. Cheryl watches from afar. “Just open yourself up to people a bit more; don’t write them off immediately. Don’t say ‘no’ as often as you do. Whether that’s with men, with your career, with life. Let yourself get swept along sometimes.”

Maybe they’re right, or maybe they’re not. Betty could certainly be farther along in her career (or even  _ have _ a career, she thinks bitterly) at this point in her life, but then again she could also be worse off. She’s worked hard to like herself and her outlook on life.

Without responding to either of them, Betty downs the last shot on the table—black out be damned—and sets her palms against the sticky wooden surface as she stands, then sways. “Anyone else need a drink?”

~~~

Apparently, sometime during her drunken haze, Veronica had alerted Betty to the fact that more than a few celebrity guests would be making an appearance at the opening of her vintage boutique, Fashion Fatale, the next week. Cheryl Blossom would obviously be in attendance, Archie Andrews too, and one other man: Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third. Betty had never heard a more pretentious name in her life.

“He does what again?” Betty asks yet another time as she chews on a piece of toast on the morning of the big event. She takes her last bite while simultaneously pulling her denim skirt on over her tights. She’s late for the bagel delivery already.

Veronica sips lightly on her mimosa—celebratory champagne, and all. “Runs a publishing house. Pendleton Publishing, if I recall. Inherited the business from a relative—his grandfather or other. Nepotism at its finest, no?”

Betty’s fingers still halfway through buttoning up her coat. “Pendleton Publishing House, of Baxter Brothers and Tracy True fame?”

“I’ve no idea, but he’s rich to be sure.”

~~~

Betty’s distracted the rest of the day.

( _ She’s meeting him _ — _ the publisher of the books that had defined her childhood _ — _ tonight! _ )

Luckily, baking becomes a mindless task with muscle memory, especially after so many years of making pies for Pop at the diner and then opening up her own coffee shop on Main Street.

“Hey, boss?” Ethel calls from the front. Betty hums a reply in between taste-testing various batters and icings. “Mr. Robinson’s in with his electric bike, and Moose thinks you should probably take a look at it first.”

It had been a while since someone had come in with a repair in Betty’s field of expertise, and she smiles down at the flour coating her apron as she wipes her hands clean. “I’ll be out in a second. Do you mind making sure the shortcakes don’t burn in the oven?”

After hanging her apron on the coat rack behind her, Betty walks out front. The coffee shop’s abuzz at this hour, with people chatting over their lunch breaks on one side of the room and reading from the bookshelves on the other.

Betty’s favourite part of the shop, however, is all the way by the windows: the repair station. After hearing about Repair Cafés and their local efforts to fix, rather than trash, broken appliances, Betty hired Moose, the local handy-man, to help out during his downtimes. Other volunteers eventually flocked to the café for coffee, scones, and the opportunity to engage with others in the community while saving the landfill, one jammed sewing machine at a time.

All the hours that she had spent fixing cars up with her dad on Sundays paid off whenever someone came in with a motor to tinker with, or any metal scraps that required a bit of welding. Those instances were rare, but they were always Betty’s favourite part of the day.

“Mr. Robinson!” Betty greets cheerily and, upon seeing her smile reflected back on his face, immediately forgets about the mess in her kitchen—and the rest of the sweets she has left to bake before tonight’s opening.

~~~

Her breath shortens, then speeds up, as Betty rushes to put the finishing swirls of frosting along the top tier of the strawberry shortcake. Next to her, Ethel tops the fruit tarts with fresh raspberries. Both of them are covered in red fruit juice, and the counter top appears to have been the site of a murder.

To top it all off, they’re late, and Veronica’s surely having a meltdown. Betty’s phone buzzes incessantly across the room.

“Done!” Ethel announces as Moose stacks the last box of vegan cannolis onto the cart that they’ll use to shuttle the desserts to the back door of the boutique. She adds her fruit tarts to the top of the pile, and Betty urges them to deliver the food as quickly as possible.

“I’ll bring the cake over myself,” she promises, then wipes her sweat away with the back of a hand, frosting most definitely smearing across her forehead. She doesn’t have enough time to care.

Veronica’s already cut the massive red ribbon by the time Betty steps through the back door of Fashion Fatale, the box in her arms her only focus. It’s holding her tiered strawberry shortcake, and she can’t afford to trip over a loose streamer or string of fairy lights and lose all of her work to gravity.

“Betty!” Veronica startles her, and Betty tightens her grip with a wince.

“V, I’m a little busy right now.”

“Yes, of course, set that down somewhere.” She pauses to take a sip from a champagne flute, and Betty maneuvers around her, careful to avoid bumping into any of the other attendants. The showroom is packed, and all of the aesthetically-displayed clothes have been covered in a transparent plastic that shows them off, all the while protecting them from harm. “The desserts you sent over already were just marvelous, you know.”

“I’m glad,” Betty grits out as she struggles to set the box down on a decadently-decorated table without tipping it one way or the other.

“You’ve met Cher already, but may I introduce you to Archie Andrews?” Veronica waves a hand towards the man now standing behind her. Betty looks over her shoulder and sends him a smile and a nod, an implied  _ Thank you for taking care of her the other night _ .

Archie beams a smile back. Cheryl skims her hands along the lines of her skintight dress and settles them on her hips, irritated.

From behind Betty’s back, Veronica continues: “And this is Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third.”

The publisher’s behind her?

Betty takes a deep breath, slowly, robotically opening the box up, revealing the cake, and then waiting for a beat. When she fully turns to greet the newest member of their little group, she has to look up to catch his gaze.

He’s young—much younger than she thought a man of such status would be. If she had to guess, she wouldn’t even place two years between them. And he’s attractive, too. Dark hair, freckled cheeks, intelligent eyes.

Intelligent eyes that stare right past her, silently judging the dessert on the table behind her for far longer than necessary.

She has little patience for the lack of civility he displays by completely ignoring her and scrutinizing her work instead, so she adopts the cheeriest demeanor she can muster after such an exhausting day and faces his companions instead.

“So nice to finally meet you in person, Archie. Ronnie has told me so many wonderful—” She interrupts herself as a thought occurs to her, and she whispers a disbelieving “oh my god.” Her cheeks flush, and Betty quickly scans the room for Ethel, or Moose. They’ve both disappeared from her sight, and so she must go herself.

“I really am so sorry,” she tells them all, “but I’ve forgotten to bring over the vegan caramel flan! It had been chilling in the fridge, and it just slipped my mind, and—” She’s rambling now. “I’ll be back!” she yells over her shoulder, sidestepping a congregation of women lamenting the lack of size diversity offered by sustainable fashion brands. Betty proudly overhears one of them praise Veronica’s efforts towards inclusivity as she slips out the door.

~~~

When Betty returns, a platter of delicate flan in hand, Ethel ensnares her in a conversation about which book they should add to the cafe’s collection, and which one they should take off the shelves to donate. It’s a monthly debate that the two of them thoroughly enjoy, each arguing the merits of keeping the book that the other is willing to give away.

It’s during a lull in their discussion of Jane Eyre ( _ It’s a classic, Betty! _ ) that the two overhear the distinct syrupy-sweetness of Cheryl Blossom’s voice as it floats through the room. She and Mr. Jones are observing the rest of the room at a distance, a rather upset look on his face.

“If it weren’t Veronica’s grand opening, I would never have come, and most certainly would have left by now.” Cheryl gazes up at him, a smirk on her lips. “What about you, J? Are you loving this or what?”

“You already know exactly how I feel about parties, Cheryl.”

“Aw, and not even a lovely lady can make it any better?”

“I know no one beyond our group.”

“What, and I’m not a lovely lady?” She laughs easily. “Either way, that’s quite untrue. Isn’t Ronnie’s best friend just grand?” The sarcasm dripping from her voice is unmistakable. Her eyes sparkle as they watch Mr. Jones frown.

“She’s…” He struggles to find a word. “Tolerable.”

Ethel, having been listening to their conversation herself, suddenly shoots Betty a pitying look. She knows exactly how much Betty had been excited to meet this publisher, one connected to her past, one who could have also been her ticket to a future.

“And I’m certainly not in the mood to give consequence to a woman so frantically disorganized, so reliant upon the charity of friends for commissions.”

Ethel scoffs at that, but Betty shrugs the comment off with a sharp laugh.

“At least you’ll never have to speak to him again after tonight, B.”

“Small mercies,” comes her response, one she doesn’t even register as having said, before she’s off to deliver the flan to the desserts table.

She tells herself that his words hadn’t hurt. She won’t let the opinions of such a self-righteous man hold any weight. If anything, they’ve just set her further against him.

Yes, she’s decided that she quite dislikes Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third after all.

  
  



	2. I Dearly Love A Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know the infamous hand-touch of 2005??
> 
> Yeah?
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Prepare yourselves for some real repression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! How have you all been? How are we feeling about V Day coming up? Do we care? Do we not? What is the vibe??
> 
> (Can you tell I need sleep?)
> 
> Anywho, thank you so very much to my wonderful beta: @redundantoxymorons. Iz, this chapter would not be here without you.
> 
> Catch you on the flip side!

“How could anyone be so cruel?” Polly asks, absolutely horrified, as she settles further into the couch. She’s sitting with her back against the armrest, knees pulled to her chest and a glass of white wine nestled between them.

She had seen the pictures from Fashion Fatale’s opening night on the boutique’s new Instagram account, which Veronica had insisted everyone follow. The two redheads had immediately caught her eye (as a teen, she’d had a celebrity crush on Cheryl’s brother, Jason Blossom– back when the family was the subject of the long-running reality TV show  _ Back Again with the Blossoms _ ), and so the sisters’ conversation had shifted to focus on the celebrity guests who’d been present that night.

Betty had joked about Mr. Jones’s indiscretions, but Polly was clearly rather appalled.

“He’s not just  _ anyone _ , Polly. Unfortunately, rich white men like him get to be as cruel as they like, and nothing will ever happen to them.”

“I just wish he hadn’t said such horrible things about you.”

Looking back on it, she must have looked absolutely disheveled that night: red-stained hands, icing on her forehead, and a crazed look in her eyes as she remembered the flan. It’s no excuse for his words, of course, but she probably would have laughed at herself too, had she been watching from the sidelines.

She shrugs in response to Polly’s frown. “I could easily forgive his pride, had he not wounded mine.”

That line about “charity” had hurt, she can admit, but now, more than anything, Betty looks back on his words and laughs. He really thought he had understood her, had seen right through her during their couple of split-second interactions at a party. A party where she had been working, to top it all off.

How wrong he’d been. How wrong she’d prove him. That is, if she ever sees him again. She doesn’t particularly care to.

“What a shame,” Polly’s saying between sips of her wine. Her blonde hair falls in front of her face as she stares down into her lap, a few creases settling above her eyebrows. Then she smiles faintly, the wine bringing the sparkle back to her eyes. She’s older than Betty by two years, and they’ve both outgrown their teens by at least a decade now, but Betty’s transported back to a time when her sister was the optimistic, boy-crazy cheerleader, and not the zen yoga teacher who still hasn’t moved out of her parents’ house. “He could have really given you a future. To have a personal connection with the head of a publishing house? That’s priceless for an aspiring author.”

As if Betty didn’t know it herself.

“I have a future, Polly,” she reminds her sister, and herself. She’s got the coffee shop, which brings her more joy than she could have ever imagined when she’d poured all of her savings into it, post-bachelor’s degree from Riverdale Community College.

(She hadn’t wanted to work at Pop’s the rest of her life, and writing for Dilton at  _ The Register _ was absolutely out of the question. Working for her father? Even worse.)

“And I can still get published, even without the support of some self-righteous hot-shot publisher.”

“What’s this about a hot-shot publisher?” Of course her mother had overheard from her perch at the kitchen counter.

“Betty met the owner of Pendleton Publishing House, and his friends, at Veronica’s business party the other night,” Polly offers, and Betty groans. She’d agreed to a family dinner at Polly’s request, but she really hadn’t wanted to fill her mother in on all the details of her personal life tonight.

“Elizabeth– why didn’t you tell me? What a wonderful connection! You’ll need some assistance if you ever plan on cracking into a career and finally selling that little shop of horrors of yours.”

“I don’t need any assistance, Mother,” Betty replies evenly, hoping not to provoke any further criticisms while also standing her ground. “I want my novels published on the merits of my writing, and so I most definitely wouldn’t be sending my manuscripts to Mr. Jones, even if we did have a cordial relationship.”

“I take that to mean that you do not?”

“He was rather rude, in fact,” Polly adds.

“Then we shall be glad not to have a friendship with such a man.”

“Precisely,” Betty agrees, hoping to put an end to the conversation, but not before her mother continues harping on about how she should ask his friends if they have any other connections in the field, if only so that she can  _ get some assistance, that’s all _ .

Betty’s really starting to regret coming over tonight.

~~~

After a few cold November days, the weather warms up enough for Betty to go on a run again. Headphones placed over her ears muffle the sounds that the snow doesn’t, and she lets herself get lost in the beauty of silence as every step brings her further down the trail along Sweetwater River.

Snow had been cleared from the paths already, and Betty loves the feel of the leftover ice, salt, and pebbles underneath her sneakers.

Birds fly overhead, late in the season for migration– it always makes her a little sad to glimpse the effects of climate change on the nature around her.

The bittersweet moment is lost to the vibrations of Betty’s phone in the pocket of her leggings.

“V?”

“Ohmygod, Betty. Thank god.”

“Are you okay? Have you gotten to the cottage yet?”

Cheryl had invited Veronica on the Blossoms’ trip to their cottage upstate in Cape Vincent. It was a three-hour drive from Riverdale, and Veronica had accepted immediately. Betty, noticeably, had not been invited. Veronica had offered to stay back in solidarity, even if that meant missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime to get with Archie Andrews, but Betty had urged her along. She wanted to spend a weekend with the Blossoms (and Mr. Jones) just about as much as they did with her.

“No, oh, it’s such a disaster! We'd just passed Lake Oneida when the car, I don’t know, hit a nail or something. The tire’s fully blown out!”

“Did you steer it over to the side of the road?” Betty slows to a walk in order to catch her breath.

“It steered itself,” Cheryl informs her haughtily, and it’s only now that Betty realizes she’s on speakerphone. “I didn’t buy a Tesla for nothing– Cheryl Bombshell is most certainly not a driving gay.”

“Of course not,” Betty replies, rubbing at her temples to prevent a headache. “You said you’re in a Tesla, Cheryl? What model?”

“How should I kn—“

“X,” Jones’s voice cuts in. It catches her by surprise. “2017.”

“Damn,” Betty mutters. “So you guys don’t even have a spare tire on you to fix this yourselves.” She turns on her heel, back towards home, already knowing that she’ll have to take her own car out onto I-81 to rescue the group.

“Why do you think I called you?”

“I could’ve walked you through the process over the phone,” Betty suggests.

“As if!” Cheryl exclaims, outraged, and Betty lets out a sigh.

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Thank you, Betty,” Archie finally pipes up, and she hangs up the phone with a small smile. Veronica had picked well, for once.

~~~

After stopping by her father’s auto body shop—Cooper’s Car Clinic—for a few spare parts and a jack, Betty had spent over two hours on the road jamming to Florence + The Machine before finding the car stuck on the side of the road.

A knock on the window had Veronica opening the back side door for her.

“You should have gotten out of the car,” Betty tells her over the roar of another car passing by. “It’s safer to get out and hang back, just in case someone rear-ends you by mistake,” she clarifies once it’s quiet again.

“You couldn’t have told us that over the phone?” Cheryl grouches, but steps out of the passenger seat all the same.

The only one missing from the car is Forsythe Jones, who had left the packed car earlier to go for a walk, according to Veronica. Betty guesses he was just sick of hearing Archie and Veronica flirting in the backseats for so long.

Once she’s gone through the motions, Betty places the punctured tire, wrench, and jack back in the trunk of her car and decides to head off in search of Mr. Jones. She doesn’t care for him, not at all, but she can sense the impending snowfall, and she’d rather they all return to the car safely before she heads back home.

It wouldn’t sit right with her conscience to leave him on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere.

She could use the walk anyway, considering her run had been cut short earlier that afternoon.

“Mr. Jones?” she calls out into the trees, carefully stepping around any fallen branches that stick out through the layer of snow. She looks up from the ground to find a figure standing in the middle of a small clearing of trees, staring up at the sky.

“It’s quite beautiful out here,” he tells her. She follows his sightline towards the burnt pink sky, settling over them earlier and earlier as the season progresses. She wonders if, as someone who’s probably spent all his life in the middle of New York City, he’s ever seen anything like it before. She asks him as much.

“No, I– uh, I used to spend quite a bit of time in back-country Ohio as a kid. I guess it just reminds me of home.” The last word comes out choked, as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

She steps closer to him, arms coming up to wrap around her middle as a chill blows over her. He looks down at her, follows the motion of her arms and the shiver of her shoulders.

“We shouldn’t be out here. Let’s go.”

She takes a step back, eyes hardening and arms moving up to cover her chest over her jacket. Of course he would push her away as soon as she got any closer. _ You’re tolerable _ , she reminds herself as she turns her back to him.

Snowflakes drop onto her shoulders and nestle in her hair, and Betty stops in her tracks to let one fall onto her tongue. She feels the palm of a hand tap her shoulder as he stops himself from colliding into her, then the weight of it lifts immediately. The ghost of his hand leaves her feeling unsettled. Betty starts back up the path to their cars.

“The girls are in the car,” Archie informs them when they reach the side of the road and climb over the guardrail. “Didn’t want to get caught in the snow.”

“It’ll be bad soon,” Betty guesses, based on her years of experience living upstate. The light dusting of snow on the asphalt seems to be thickening with every minute. “We should probably get back on the roads now. I should have been on my way home a while ago.”

“You’re going home?” Jones’s voice sounds disbelieving, doubtful.

Betty turns to face him, narrowing her eyes. “I can handle myself on these roads, and I definitely wasn’t planning on making a trip up here to save all of you today. So yeah, I’m going home.”

“You could come with us,” Archie offers. “It’s only half an hour to the cottage, and over two hours home. Who knows how bad it’ll get in that much time.”

She hesitates, weighing the pros of driving for half an hour versus four times that, and the cons of having to share a cottage with two people who despise her– two people whom she despises right back.

“We’d all feel a lot better knowing you’re safe,” Archie adds with a hand on her shoulder, which is endearing despite the blatant lie he’s just told. Either way, it convinces her.

“Fine,” she huffs, and Archie grins widely. She stomps through the snow to the front door of her car, checking to make sure that there aren’t any cars speeding by before she moves to open it. “I’ll follow you there, stay until the storm blows over, and then head out. I didn’t even bring anything with me if I end up having to stay overnight.”

It’s a weak excuse, she knows, considering she could always borrow one of Veronica’s pajama sets. It’s not like Veronica didn’t try pushing her wardrobe on her most nights anyway.

“I’m sure we can find you something– Cheryl packed half her closet into that car,” Jones tells her, and Betty nearly cracks a smile at his grumbling. Nearly. Instead, she ducks into her own car and starts up the engine.

~~~

After much unpacking (which Betty had insisted on helping with, especially once Cheryl had refused), the group had settled, exhausted and cold, onto the couches in front of the fireplace. It was electric—sleek and modern, with that deliberately rustic feel that only the large, well-kept country homes of the wealthy manage to achieve—and had begun to heat up the room immediately.

Veronica had curled up on the loveseat farthest from the flames and then beckoned Archie to take the spot next to her–  _ how unsurprisingly strategic of her _ , Betty notes,  _ to use the cold as an excuse to share body heat. _

Cheryl pouts as she studiously ignores the pair, circling the room like a hawk. She stops behind the armchair that Mr. Jones has taken up, typing away at his laptop in between sips of coffee. Betty wants to point out that it’s past six o’clock and therefore much too late for caffeine, but decides to stay quiet and let Cheryl do the nagging instead.

“You type uncommonly fast,” she comments while flipping her curls over her shoulder and leaning over his own.

He turns his back to hide the computer screen from her view. “You’re mistaken. I type as quickly as the words come to me, which is to say not quickly at all.”

She bats her lashes and thrusts her hips back as she bends over further. Betty watches silently, amused. “And yet it seems to me that this novel of yours has been coming along quite nicely since you’ve joined us.”

“It’s rather fortunate that I’ve been so inspired.”

“My goodness, ‘inspired!’” she gasps loudly, finally drawing Veronica’s and Archie’s attention. “And to write so beautifully!”

“Whether my writing is beautiful or not is up to the editor to decide.”

“Anything with more thought put into it than Archibald’s drab lyricism is beautiful enough for me.”

Ah, so that was the tactic: Bring the other down to raise herself up. How very playground-bully of her. Betty couldn’t expect much more.

“At least I write my own songs,” Archie defends himself now. “They show how I feel, not how well I can put words together. I know I’m not the best at it, but I do try.” Veronica squeezes his shoulder in support.

“Your humility saves you from any such scorn,” Betty tells Archie, ignoring Cheryl’s glare.

“It would, if his humility were anything but an indirect boast; he really is proud of his writings– as he should be,” Jones adds after a beat, throwing a smirk towards his friend. “Your lyrics display your tender heart just as much as your toothy grin, and as such you are not ashamed of them. Just as you aren’t ashamed of all the shirtless photoshoots your publicist insists you do.” Archie blushes at his words.

Cheryl huffs at the compliments paid to her cousin, and straightens up. “Enough of such silly arguments,” she proclaims, entirely forgetting her role in starting this one in the first place. “Jay should finish his writings instead.”

He does, word by word, tap by tap, as Betty continues to read from the novel she’d fished out of her purse—the latest addition to The Shop’s bookshelves, which she, of course, has to vet first.

Once he had set his laptop back inside the messenger bag at his feet, Cheryl had begun to blast her music from the surround-sound speakers above them. The first notes had been so loud that they had startled Archie and Veronica apart, and Betty, now distracted, had been forced to look up from her book.

Mr. Jones had caught her eye right before shifting his gaze to the floor. He’d been watching her, she surmises, though she can’t imagine why. She certainly could not be an object of the man’s admiration—not after his words at Veronica’s party—but it seems even more strange that he would look upon a person he so dislikes.

Finally, she realizes that she must draw his notice because there’s more wrong with her, according to him, than with anyone else in the room. The thought makes her like him even less than she had before.

When Cheryl blasts a mix of bubblegum pop and country—a type of music that Betty somehow enjoys, despite not really caring for either genre on its own— Cheryl shimmies over to her. She’s been shamelessly dancing around the room in her mini-dress, lacy stockings slipping down her legs with each step on the bearskin rug, and must now feel the need to impress even more. By comparison, Betty’s oversized FBI sweatshirt (a gag gift from Polly’s high school trip to DC) and mom jeans don’t cut quite the same figure. 

Betty fiddles with the pages of the book in her lap, then agrees to dance. If she’s going to be watched, she might as well have some fun doing it. Cheryl grins widely, predatorily, as soon as Betty’s hands are in hers. Betty regrets her decision immediately.

“Come join us, Jones,” Cheryl urges after a few beats, now kicking her leg up with each beat, a move that Betty recognizes out of a high school cheer number. Betty, on the other hand, has pulled Veronica into dancing with her, and the two of them take turns spinning each other as if they’re in a ballroom.

“I can admire you much better if I sit by the fire,” comes his monotone answer, and Cheryl gasps.

“And here I thought I told you to check the male gaze at the door,” she retorts, then looks to Veronica. “How should we punish him for such a thing?”

“Tease him, laugh at him,” Betty suggests, watching as a frown settles over his face. “I dearly love a laugh.”

“And which faults should we laugh at? He has so many.” Cheryl sticks her tongue out at him.

“Vanity? Pride?”

“Terrible ideas, Miss Draper. Neither are weaknesses.”

This time, Betty knows better than to correct her.

“I’d qualify vanity as such, though I’ve tried to keep mine in check.” He’s so self-assured that she has to hide a smile.

“Then Mr. Jones must have no faults—he says so himself,” she tells Cheryl.

“I have faults enough,” he argues back, now sitting upright and focused intently on her. She begins dancing the cotton-eyed joe, though her steps don’t match up to the beat of Taylor Swift’s ballad in any way. “My temper gets the best of me, and I’m quick to escalate situations.” He drinks some coffee out of the mug that has somehow refilled itself. Betty had probably just been too engrossed in her novel to notice him get up to refill it earlier. “Nor can I forget the offenses of others against myself– my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”

She stops dancing to catch her breath, and Veronica leans against her to do the same. “That is a fault, though I can’t laugh at you for it.”

“You see, everyone has a fault.”

“Yes,” she finally agrees with him. “Yours is to hate everyone.”

“And yours,” he replies with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”

~~~

Mr. Jones had apparently packed as much food as Cheryl had clothes, and so dinner was a feast that left everyone with a full belly and in need of sleep.

Everyone, that is, except for the dark-haired man who had been drinking coffee a few hours before, and who Betty now approaches as she walks back into the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Are you happy with the room?” he asks her while drying off the dishes he had offered to wash. She isn’t sure why he’s asking– he isn’t the one who owns the place.

“It’s… tolerable,” she replies slyly, watching his cheeks burn red as she throws his words back in his face. She opens a bunch of cabinets in search of a glass and he knowingly slides one across the counter after drying it off. She mutters her thanks before heading to the fridge to fill it up.

“What was the book you were reading tonight?”

“Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers,” she answers harshly, challenging him to grimace or gape at the title.

He doesn’t take the bait. “A fan of true crime, then?”

She shrugs, sips at her ice water. “More of a fan of analyzing the misogyny behind it.”

“Ah.”

“Though I am quite a fan of mysteries. Tracy True was my idol as a kid.” She feels shy admitting that, and gazes down at her feet while waiting for his response. When it doesn’t come, she looks back up.

He’s grinning widely at her, then suddenly throws the dish towel over his shoulder as he leans against the counter. It’s oddly attractive. “My grandfather would have loved to hear that. She was a groundbreaking character in his time, and still is quite remarkable.”

“Have you yet to find a woman like her?” Betty jabs, digging for the deeper implications of his statement.

He blanches, then amends. “No, just not very many. A truly remarkable woman must have Tracy’s wit, her courage, her determination.” He pauses, then smirks. “And to all of that she must add the improvement of her mind through extensive reading.”

Betty huffs. What kind of man has a list of characteristics that make up a ‘remarkable woman’? “We’re all so busy leading our own lives that we really don’t have much time to cater to the opinions of men. I barely have enough time to read as it is, and I make it a part of my job, as both a business owner and a writer.”

“You write?” he asks, genuine, but she shakes her head. This is the opportunity she’s always wanted—a publisher interested in her work—but this is not the man she had envisioned handing her words over to.

“Forget it. Goodnight,” she tells him half-heartedly, then heads down the hallway to her bedroom.

She’ll be out of here by morning, and once back in Riverdale she’ll be free to ignore him as much as she likes.

~~~

A snow plow clears the roads early the next morning, and Betty watches through the window as it drives by the entrance to the cottage’s driveway. Leaning her shoulder against the glass, she lets out a sigh; she’ll either have to dig her car out of the driveway or wait until the snow melts on its own.

Everyone else is still asleep, and she doesn’t want to wake them to ask for a shovel, so she decides to wade through the foot of snow to grab the one she always keeps in the trunk of her car. Her father always advised her to carry one, especially during the winter, and she’s added blankets, flashlights, and a first aid kit to the list of winter essentials.

Betty slips her snow boots on and tucks her jeans into them, then layers on her coat and gloves. Her hair is loosely tied up with a scrunchie, and Betty’s sure that a few short pieces will inevitably slip out into her face, but she refuses to tighten it.

Chapstick applied and car keys in her pocket, Betty opens the front door to a blast of frozen air. It’s always bitterly cold the day after a snowstorm, and today’s no exception. She trudges through the pristine layer of snow until she reaches the back of her car, gloves slowly soaking as she uses her hands to dust snow off the trunk.

Shovel retrieved, Betty starts digging the tires out first. Looking at the rest of the driveway fills her with dread—it’s a fairly long stretch until it hits the road, and at the end there’s a wall of snow that the snowplow had piled up throughout its nightly rounds. She’ll take it a step at a time, and she’ll deal with the wall once she gets to it.

She sweats under her layers with each movement of the shovel, while the bitter cold numbs her fingers. Her shoulders feel sore already, back and knees straining as she lifts the snow out of the way. Her side bangs fall in front of her eyes, irritating her even more than the heat under her collar, and Betty continuously blows them out of the way as she works– her gloves are too wet and too fuzzy to be of any help. If anything, she’ll just end up with even more frizzy hair in her face.

“Betty?” Jones calls from the front door. She looks up in acknowledgment, then gets back to work. She needs to head home soon and has no time to deal with whatever he wants from her. She hears him carefully make his way over, following her footsteps in a hopeless effort to avoid sinking into the snow.

A piece of hair tickles her nose as she bends over to lift the shovel, and Betty grumbles as she blows it out of the way, exhaling as she throws the snow over her shoulder. The thud of snow hitting a puffy winter coat forces her to turn around, scared she might have hurt him, but he’s almost laughing, and she lets out a sigh of relief.

“Good morning.”

“It’s not such a great morning, as you can see,” she grumbles, shoving her hair out of her face with the back of her glove, tired of blowing at it. As she’d expected, it just falls back into place, frizzier than before, and she squeezes her eyes shut in frustration.

Suddenly, her face isn’t quite so cold. Her cheeks are burning, really—something has lit them on fire—and Betty’s eyes open to blinding sunlight and the sight of him leaning in closer.

Startled, she begins to pull away, until she realizes what he’s aiming for. His fingers—gentle, soft, certainly softer than she’d expected—are brushing along the side of her face, and Betty shivers. Her heart is pounding, loud in her ears as the rest of the world goes quiet.

He pushes the tendrils of hair behind her ear, tucking them into place, his gaze focused on hers the entire time. It’s so intense, the way he looks at her, that she nearly looks away, but she’s trapped. She can’t do anything but stare at him.

When he pulls his hand back, she follows him forwards for a moment, then catches herself so that she doesn't fall face-first into the snow. He looks at his hand, now lying at his side, then turns quickly. His words drift over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the house: “Archie has a machine, I think, that’ll get the job done a lot faster than this. I’ll grab it.”

She’s just as frozen as the air when he shuts the front door behind him.

_ What on earth was that?  _

Suddenly, his words click, and Betty shakes herself out, dropping the shovel into the snow. She wants to fall back into it, to lie down for a bit. All of her work could have been avoided– of course Archie would have a snowblower. Now that she thinks about it, she’s honestly surprised he hasn’t hired a man to push the machine for him.

When Jughead steps back outside this time, he rounds the side of the mansion with the blower, already revved up and making its way through a good amount of snow.

“Archie’s got some salt back there too,” he shouts over the noise of the engine, “if you want to lay it down after I’m done with this.”

She does, and they work together through the morning, though it’s still early enough by the time they’re done that nobody else has woken up. Once she’s finally able to leave, Betty texts Ethel that she probably won’t be home for a few more hours, asking her to lock up the coffee shop after her shift. Betty’s exhausted already and definitely won’t have the energy to keep it open herself by the time she gets home.

She pulls out of the driveway with one last glance in her rearview mirror. She isn’t sure what she’s expecting, or who, but she’s still disappointed by the stillness of the scene behind her. There’s nothing, no one, there.

She shuffles through her playlists and clicks on the first Florence song that comes up.

~~~

The weather oh-so-kindly decides to bless them with snow the rest of the week, and Betty’s sick by the end of it– sick of the snow, and probably sick with a cold. When she walks into the shop Friday morning, she immediately searches the counter for tissues and brews herself a mug of lemon ginger tea.

Ethel, looking no less run down, greets her with a thin smile. At least the place will be fairly empty for the day, courtesy of the snow, and they’ll have fewer customers than usual to put on a smile for.

She and Ethel are wiping the display windows clean when a man with a shock of orange hair steps through the door. Betty recognizes him instantly, even with the all the extra lines etched into his forehead. His picture had hung on Polly’s bedroom wall for years, after all.

She doesn’t greet him by name once she rounds the counter to take his order—it would be weird to presume to know him—and even asks him for it when she has to print out his receipt.

“Jason Blossom,” he tells her with a wide grin, and Betty finds it a bit odd that he’s willing to share his full name so readily, but sweeps her suspicions to the side when he tips heavily.

“Are you in town for long, Mister Blossom?” she asks conversationally while steaming the oat milk for his latte.

“Just visiting my sister, and please: Call me Jason.”

Betty smiles, then pours the milk into the mug on the counter. “Very well, Jason, here’s your latte.”

“What lovely art,” he comments appreciatively, and she beams. She had been practicing her latte art for quite awhile now, and it always made her day when a customer acknowledged how difficult the skill was to master. Especially when she was experimenting with different animals—today’s was a snake.

After she’s thanked him sincerely he carries the mug over to a table by her hanging Pothos Plant (which is in desperate need of watering– she’ll have to add that to her to-do list). He opens up a newspaper, or tabloid, if Betty’s eyes don’t deceive her, and proceeds to sip at his latte until he sets the paper down and heads for the restroom.

A few moments later, the bells above the entrance ring brightly, alerting her to the presence of two new customers.

“Betty!” Archie greets brightly. “Back to work already?”

“You know how it is.” She doubts he does, actually, considering how much of his money is inherited, but, then again, she supposes a man who used to train as a competitive athlete can empathize.

“Two large coffees, for here, please,” Mr. Jones finally speaks up, and she nods as she punches the order into the register. He hands her a ten and tells her to keep the change.

“Two large coffees for Archie and…” she trails off, then adds, “Forsythe?” It feels strange saying his first name– it’s such an odd name to begin with, and no one ever seems to use it.

He turns bright red as he stammers to correct her. “It’s, uh, Jug– Jughead, actually.”

Somehow, that’s even weirder. Her name’s  _ Betty _ , though. As much as she dislikes the man, she can’t really judge.

“Alright, well, your coffees will be right up.”

She pours their coffees and looks up from the counter just in time to catch Jason walk out of the men’s bathroom and Jone– Jughead’s eyes land directly on him.

Suddenly, Jughead’s walking out, leaving Archie to stare right after him, alternating his gaze between the door and the man with hair as bright as his own. His mouth bobs open and closed in surprise, and Betty imagines she can’t look much different.

“I guess I’ll have to go after him,” he finally says. “Sorry to let the coffee go to waste, Betty.” She waves him off– someone in here will appreciate a free cup. “Anyway, we were just stopping by to ask whether you and Veronica were interested in coming to our Friendsgiving on Thursday, so just, uh, let me know.” He starts for the door, stops to wave goodbye and shoot one last look at Jason, then pulls out his phone as he continues on his way out.

The whole experience is so bizarre she has no idea what to make of it.

That is, until Jason takes a seat on one of the barstools at the counter. He shakes his head lightly, and Betty watches him with fascination. He has a grace to him, a liveliness to him, even when he’s so obviously bogged down. “How long has that man been in Riverdale?”

_ That man? _ She assumes he’s referring to Jughead.

“A little over a month. He’s in town to gain inspiration for his novel, from what I understand, though what novel that would be, I’ve no idea.”

“Yes, he always was interested in becoming a writer. I believe he’s published a few books of his own, though nothing much came of them.”

“You’ve known him for quite a while then?”

“Oh yes, as long as he’s known Archie– he and I are cousins, you know.”

“Yes, I did know, though I’ve only recently become acquainted with him and the rest of your family and friends. As well-acquainted as I ever wish to be, that is– Mister Jones is not a very agreeable man to be around.”

“I’ve known him too long to be a fair judge of his character myself, though I’d say that your opinion of him is quite rare. Most people are far too blinded by his fortune and famous connections to see him for what he truly is.”

The people of Riverdale surely did not like the man who sulked about their town with a judgmental eye, but Jason Blossom seemed to hold a real disdain for him. She liked Jason all the better for it.

“Well, I hope his presence doesn’t drive you out of town, or stop you from visiting your sister.”

“Oh no, I won’t be driven out of town by such a man. If he wants to avoid seeing me, then he will have to be the one to go. He was the one who ruined me most terribly.” Betty must react with enough astonishment for him to nod along and elaborate: “After the success of  _ Back Again with the Blossoms– _ you’ve heard of it, I assume?”

This time, Betty nods.

“Well, my agent had booked me the leading role on the newest Baxter Brothers Mysteries TV show. Jones heard about it and announced that he would pull the network’s rights to produce the show if I stayed on, and so of course I was fired. My career was killed after that– I haven’t had a job in Hollywood for years now.”

“But what could have caused him to act so cruelly?” Betty asks, though she admits to herself that these actions don’t seem so out-of-character for a man who called her “tolerable” the first night he met her.

“A thorough dislike for me,” comes his answer, simple enough. “He had wanted another actor to play the role, an actor whom he had chosen himself, and he could not stand the thought of someone else’s opinion being valued more than his own.”

She thinks about it for a moment. He  _ had _ once told her about how terrible his temper was– no,  _ is _ . “How conceited of him!” she exclaims, nearly spilling the mug of coffee she’d forgotten was in her grasp.

“Yes, most of his actions can be traced to pride and conceit. He’s very proud of his family– very proud of his grandfather’s legacy and the characters that the man created. He could not see his grandfather’s artistic vision go in any way other than his own.”

Betty thinks back to their conversation about Tracy True. He’d called her groundbreaking, remarkable.

Ethel approaches the counter with a handful of ribbons and many questions as to which color best suits the basket of goods they’ve prepared to donate to women’s shelters around the county for Thanksgiving. Jason charms her as they sort through the full rainbow of threads, and Betty watches absently, sipping on her now-cold coffee as she does.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave any questions, comments, concerns, etc. down below, as I love hearing from all of you. 
> 
> Any thoughts on the Austen-ian dialogue? Is it getting on our nerves yet? I'd love to know!
> 
> (Oh and I have far too many midterms to count in the month of Feb so I'm afraid that another update probably won't be out until the first week of March, but you never know! Stay tuned because inspo always hits at the worst of times!)
> 
> xoxo


	3. I do not think we were speaking at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jughead Jones is most decidedly _not_ cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies!
> 
> This chapter has been in the works for over a month, and I'm so sorry for the wait, but life has been hectic lately (more so than usual, as I'm sure it's been for all of you as well).
> 
> Please stay safe, stay in your homes, and stay well. Sending you all so much love.

Archie catches up to him outside the coffee shop, barely out of breath. Jughead, on the other hand, gasps for air.

“Dude,” Archie scolds as they walk side by side. “Not cool.”

Jughead knows he’d made a fool of himself back there. He’d acted impulsively, instinctively. The most he can say for himself is that he hadn’t punched Jason Blossom in the jaw.

Small mercies.

Archie doesn’t talk the rest of the way back to Thornhill. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s fine. More than fine. They can sit, or stand, around each other without feeling obligated to speak just for the sake of speaking, and it’s one of the reasons that they get along so well.

At this point, Jughead would consider Archie more of a brother than a best friend. They don’t need words to communicate. 

Jughead stares at the ground, watching his feet step over each crack in the sidewalk. Archie gazes upwards at the clear sky and clouds. A crisp November breeze passes over their shoulders.

Cheryl greets them upon arrival at the mansion; she’s tanning out in the driveway. A wide-brimmed sun hat obscures her eyes from view, but Jughead can still feel her examining them.

“Who died?” she asks, almost cheerily.

Archie is visibly thrown by the question, eyebrows scrunching, but Jughead heaves a sigh. “No one, Cher. We just had an unfortunate run-in with your brother.”

Her skin pales at his words, and now she’s sheet-white. The tabloid magazine in her hands drops to her lap. “Ah. So our collective dignity died by association, then?”

Archie shrugs at that. “Betty didn’t seem to mind him, actually.”

For some reason, Jughead’s stomach twists. “Not by association with him — not yet, at least — but because I ran out of there like a spooked horse.”

Cheryl clicks her tongue. “How terrible. I knew it was too warm out to be a nice day.” Sitting up in her lounge chair, she pulls a thin robe on over her bathing suit.

It isn’t warm out; it’s only a few days before Thanksgiving, after all. Not for the first time, Jughead wonders what exactly runs through Blossom blood.

“What do we plan on doing about this, boys?” Cheryl leads them into the house before dramatically falling back onto a settee.

“He can’t stay here,” Jughead reasons. They might as well start with the obvious.

Cheryl nods in agreement while Archie stares off into the room. He’s about to check out of the conversation, Jughead knows. Archie’s passionate, opinionated, but never one for logistics.

“And my brother certainly won’t be the one kicking me out of my own house.”

“So we’ll stay. Avoid him as much as possible, make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble here either.”

Cheryl’s lips purse, a frown settling over her features. “I cannot believe he managed to find this shithole of a town. He’s out for revenge, you know.”

“Sure. He wants money, or this house, or something.”

“How ridiculous,” Cheryl tuts, then places the back of her hand on her forehead. “I’m coming down with a headache thinking about it all.”

Archie, a man of action, finds his voice: “Do you need anything to drink? I’ll get you something.”

“God, yes. A margarita will do just fine.”

Archie stares at her for a second, then trudges into the kitchen. When he comes back empty-handed, Jughead sighs.

The two of them leave Cheryl behind on the sofa, grab a few reusable bags, and head to the grocery store.

~~~

He’s picking up some limes from the produce aisle when he spots a blonde ponytail a few feet away. After dropping them into his cart, he pretends to examine the peppers.

He should apologize. He should walk over to her, explain what had happened, why he fled, who Jason really was.  _ What _ Jason really was.

When he realizes that a woman standing nearby is waiting for him to step away from the peppers, he grabs the first one he sees. It’s yellow– his least favourite. Maybe Archie will eat it. Jughead’s definitely not about to return to the pepper section and put it back now.

Betty’s moved towards the potatoes, and Jughead pushes his cart in her direction, determined, until she’s greeted by another man– a short, scrawny man with a pen tucked behind his ear and multiple cans of beans in his grasp.

Jughead doesn’t mean to eavesdrop—he really doesn’t—but he’s close now, and he can’t back away without drawing too much attention to himself. The pepper lady is making her way down the aisle and coming up close.

“You’ve got to, Betty,” the man is pleading. Betty rolls her eyes.

“Did you really follow me to the grocery store just for this, Dilton?”

“I did not follow– certainly not.” Dilton stutters, appalled. “I was just stocking up on supplies for the bunker when I saw you by the potatoes. Excellent choices, by the way.” He nods towards the produce in her cart, and Jughead almost laughs.

Stopping himself just in time, he starts looking through boxes of strawberries as he continues to listen. He shouldn’t, he knows, but he’s intrigued now.

“Well, whatever you’re here for,” Betty tells Dilton in a sharp tone, “I will never agree to come back to the Register.”

Dilton sighs dramatically. “I just need an interview, Betty. One. You’re the best writer in town, and you know Archie Andrews. Can’t you hear this project calling your name?”

Jughead looks up quickly, trying to gage the reaction on Betty’s face. Her eyes are narrowed. “How do you know that I know Archie Andrews?”

“It’s all over Veronica’s Instagram, Cooper. His party, the retreat into the woods? Nobody else owns such an extravagant cottage.”

Veronica had posted all of that online? To a public account? Jughead squeezes a box a bit too hard, only for the clear plastic to crumple loudly. Resignedly, he adds the box to his cart.

No wonder Jason had found them so easily. A quick Google search would reveal Veronica Lodge’s boutique, its location, her location, and thus Archie’s.

He should have known that these girls would bring trouble. It won’t be long before the paparazzi show up in Riverdale as well.

He doesn’t hear Betty’s response– maybe she takes the job, maybe she doesn’t. She should; it’s fairly easy money. Archie would never say no to a friend.

A text comes through as Jughead’s making his way to the cash registers: Archie got the liquor. They’re to meet up in the parking lot.

Archie drives them home, and Jughead opens up Instagram on his phone. He has an account– one he barely uses, one that’s mainly run by Pendleton’s social media expert. He searches for Veronica Lodge’s account, and sure enough, there it is: a picture of Veronica and Archie at his party, his arm thrown over her shoulder, the both of them beaming. When Jughead taps his screen, Archie’s username pops up.

Archie had even liked the post.

“Why didn’t you ask her to take it down?”

“Hm?”

“The post. Of you and Veronica. You know that every tabloid in the country’s going to plaster you guys on its front page, right?”

Archie shrugs, takes a turn a bit too wide. “She can post what she wants,” he replies.

_ Not when you’re in the post _ , he wants to tell Archie.  _ Not when your location is being tracked by random people on the internet. _

Instead, Jughead switches over to Tumblr. He scrolls through some pictures of cats to make himself feel better.

Hopefully the tabloids won’t catch on.

(They definitely will.)

~~~

As Thanksgiving break approaches, Jughead’s unread emails increase exponentially.

He needs to sort through them, make some important decisions on new contracts, old contracts, submissions, and more before everyone leaves for the long weekend.

The dining room proves a good enough place to work until Cheryl barges in, avocado-coloured mask smeared all over her face, hair pinned back.

“Back to work already?”

“Not all of us have a trust fund, Cher,” he grouches as he picks between two book covers that the graphics team had sent him.

“No, you’re right,” she concedes before continuing, “but wasn’t this supposed to be your time off? Wasn’t upstate New York supposed to inspire the next great American novel?”

She’s teasing, but there’s a hint of concern there. Jughead sighs, pushes himself away from the table. “Now you sound like Toni,” he tells her.

“Not to agree with my ex, but she’s right, J. I’m sure she’s got the company under control without you. Take your break, write your book.”

He turns her words over in his mind. She’s right, as usual, but he’s always been too involved in his family’s business to fully step back from it. Even when that business was drug running and gang managing. He’s loyal to a fault; he knows it. “I have a meeting with JB later about our new social media campaign for the holidays,” he tells her quietly.

She knows the meeting’s about more than that: Both he and Jelly are so consumed by their work that their weekly meetings are the only time they have to catch up.

“Don’t cancel it, obviously. Talk to your sister for a bit, then come with me into town. You can shack up at Betty’s little shop of horrors while I stop down the road to charm a certain brunette. I’ve been dying to try on some of her clothes.”

Cheryl winks, Jughead chuckles.

He shuts his laptop and walks into the kitchen for a snack. He deserves a break every now and then.

~~~

Friendsgiving at Thornhill turns out to be just as extravagant as every other Blossom party.

The mansion is beautifully (professionally) decorated in reds, oranges, and yellows. Pumpkins line the walkway to the front door, and wreaths wrapped in leaves and berries hang over every window.

The menu for the night greets guests at the front entrance, and Jughead can hear voices filtering in from the living room. He’s camped out in the kitchen, chewing on a few of the roasted potatoes he’d stolen from the platter.

He’s never much been a fan of large gatherings, and he doubts tonight will be any different from the norm. Archie and Cheryl will be wrapped up in their guests, and their guests will be wrapped up in them. He’ll be forced to awkwardly listen in on others’ conversations, something he’s always been good at, but hardly enjoyed.

As a kid, he’d been forced to be the outsider looking in so often that it had become a part of his personality. It was much easier to absorb the loner persona than fight it.

And here he was: an adult, still scared of society. Scared of so many people, so many things. Scared of connection, rejection.

The sun sets through the windows behind him, bathing the room in burnt orange rays of light that reflect off the marble countertop. The deep rumble of a pickup truck arriving outside vibrates through the floors of the house. Soon after, the front rooms fill with the laughter of more guests.

Cheryl bursts through the door, armed with bottles of wine– gifts from their guests, he assumes. The sound of ambient music drifts in behind her, then quiets when the door shuts once again.

She drops the wine off in the pantry before turning back to him. “Surprised to see you aren’t out there, trailing after a certain set of  _ fine eyes _ .”

“I, uh– I decided not to make a fool out of myself tonight, so I’m hiding here instead. You know I’m not one for parties.”

“I do know. But this time there actually is a lady waiting for you out there, so you’ve made a terrible decision, Romeo. Go find your Juliet, before she finds someone else,” she tells him, point-blank.

Her nails dig into his arm as she drags him out to the living room, where everyone seems to be mingling with a drink in hand. 

Betty isn’t hard to spot. Her dress is blinding, gold, and short. Very short. She’s his very own green lantern, the light reflecting off of her beckoning him to cross the ocean of people between them.

She sparkles. Her dress, her hair, her laughter when Veronica whispers in her ear. The two of them split off from the group of people they’re with and weave through the crowd, most likely in search of Archie, or another drink.

After a few seconds, he stops trying to follow them– he’s not a creep. 

He’d wanted to say hi, maybe even strike up a conversation with Betty, but not like this. He retreats to the kitchen once again, Cheryl’s words be damned. He’ll wait here until they all take their seats at the table, and then he’ll be able to eat his way out of an awkward conversation.

~~~

Somehow—he’s still too dizzy to understand how—Betty ends up seated next to him. He tries his best not to fidget, but he’s nervous. In the end, he drinks way too much water to keep himself occupied.

Archie’s stories keep the table entertained throughout most of the meal. When he mentions that he once bought an old velociraptor animatronic off of Universal Studios as decor for his first apartment, the entire room erupts with questions.

Betty turns to face him for the first time all night, and Jughead swallows down a bite of turkey. His mouth suddenly feels very dry.

“Is it true?” she asks him over the noise of those chattering around them.

As Archie’s ex-roommate, Jughead can affirm that it is. He nods in response, reaching for more water.

She seems to believe him, sending him a thin smile before turning back to listen to more of Archie’s ramblings at the other end of the table.

They don’t talk after that, but Jughead doesn’t mind. He needs to calm his nerves if he hopes to come across as mildly sociable. Every time his fork slips through his fingers and clatters against his delicate plate, he nearly jumps out of his chair.

When everyone rises from the table to listen to Archie and Veronica’s rendition of Kids in America, Jughead stays behind. Not much goes into the decision: He doesn’t need to see any of the PDA that’s sure to ensue. He finishes off the last bread roll on the table, then looks to his right, where his hand’s far too close to Betty’s. She’s the only one left behind, standing from her seat to start piling dishes up on the table.

“You don’t need to clean,” he assures her, though he too starts collecting stray utensils and glasses to bring back to the kitchen.

His voice is hoarse, and he cringes, nearly knocking over the floral centerpiece when his vision blurs.

“I don’t mind.” She shrugs her shoulders as she reaches for the last plate– his plate. Betty’s scanning the rest of the table with her eyes, purposely avoiding him as she reaches for it. Once her fingers grasp the porcelain, she pulls back, retreating to the kitchen without a spare glance.

His lungs seem to collapse, and he can’t breathe for a few seconds. When he recovers from the shock, Jughead starts to move into overdrive. His heart’s beating too fast in his chest; he attempts to steady himself against the table as he reaches for the serving platters.

His gait shifts as he makes his way to the kitchen, arms swinging too quickly at first, then too slowly, never quite right. How had he ever managed to walk normally before?

Or is he just being hyper-critical of himself now?

The thought makes him even more nervous. (Why does he care so much what she thinks of him?)

Luckily, she doesn’t turn around as he bursts into the kitchen, platters rattling with each of his movements. The water runs from the faucet, and Betty hums along with it. Her ponytail sways from side to side as she tilts her head, Jughead’s hypnotized.

He approaches slowly, dropping the dirty dishes by the side of the sink.

They work in rhythm for a while, until Jughead slips up. His hand stays in the sink a little too long, letting the suds fully rinse off the dish, when she haughtily drops another soaped-up glass in the water.

His thumb grazes over the back of her hand, and Betty’s eyes dart to his. She holds his gaze, almost challenging him to look away.

The air around them feels stifling, only broken by the snap of her gaze to the dishes in front of her, starting her routine again. After a charged moment of silence, during which Jughead cannot seem to move, she bites out, “Are you not gonna say anything?”

“What do you want me to say?”

She huffs out a tight and controlled laugh. “Nothing. Nothing, Jughead.”

Knowing he’s messed up, Jughead tries again. “I’m not very good at–”

“Where’s Jason?” Betty interrupts, stopping him mid-sentence. It takes him a few seconds to recover from her unexpected outburst.

“Not here, I hope.”

Suddenly, the room feels darker, the lights dimmer. She turns away from him to grab a dishtowel.

“You didn’t invite him?”

The sound of Veronica and Archie’s duet fills the room, drowning out his thoughts. His reply is instinctive. “He’s not considered a friend of ours, Betty. Only friends get invited to Friendsgiving.” He says it as if it should be obvious.

A disbelieving breath of air leaves her lips as she shifts her weight onto her toes and reaches for the handle of a cabinet above her. When the pile of dishes on the shelf becomes too tall for her, he starts putting them away instead.

She stumbles back into his chest as she tries to maneuver out from underneath his arms, and Jughead flushes red. His arm reaches out to steady her before she can trip over his feet.

Her breath fans over his upper arm when she exhales unsteadily. Jughead doesn’t let go.

“Betty, it’s getting late.” Ethel barges in, causing Betty to startle and step away from him. Looking him over until she lands on his own gaze. Neither of them move, frozen in time. Every muscle tenses under her scrutiny.

The room had been suffocatingly hot before; now there are goosebumps on his arms as a chill passes over him.

Ethel drags her over to collect Veronica, who’s draped all over Archie. Someone’s filming the two of them singing together, Archie strumming at his guitar. Cheryl glares from the corner of the room.

After the guests leave, the girls driven away in the pickup that had dropped them off (Kevin’s car, apparently), Cheryl rounds on both him and Archie..

“You can’t possibly be falling for her, Archie,” Cheryl’s arguing loudly. She looks as perfectly done-up as ever, but Jughead can sense she’s falling apart. The bitterness of her words reads strongly of jealousy, the same jealousy she’s been suppressing for weeks now. Veronica’s displays of affection tonight certainly didn’t help.

He has to admit, though, that she’s right: Archie tends to fall in love with every girl who gives him a bit of her attention. Why should Veronica Lodge be any different?

“I love Ronnie,” comes Archie’s only defense.

Jughead has a headache, exacerbated by the music still streaming through the speakers and the hopelessness of the situation around him. How had both of his best friends managed to fall for the same girl?

And, if he felt like finally admitting it to himself, how had he managed to fall for that girl’s best friend?

~~~

When Betty’s coffee shop opens up on Saturday, he’s the first one through the door. He’s going to be productive today—he needs to make some headway on this novel—and this seems as good a place as any to start.

There’s good coffee and enough white noise to help him focus. Seeing Betty doesn’t hurt either.

She greets every customer with a smile and a laugh, and he admires that she appreciates the quirks and habits of those around her. She listens to people, remembers their orders. She finds all them interesting, or at least worth entertaining a conversation with.

His headphones keep him from overhearing anything, until the front door slams open and an older woman steps through. Bells ring above her while she straightens out her pastel pink blazer and pencil skirt.

When she aggressively stalks over to the counter, Jughead lowers the volume of his music. He needs to make sure that Betty’s going to be okay.

“Elizabeth,” the woman greets. Her voice is monotone, dry and deadly. “I heard you turned down Dilton’s job offer.”

There’s a pause as Betty collects herself. She stares down at the counter as she wipes it down. “I shouldn’t be surprised that he told you. You asked him to give me the interview, didn’t you?”

“I never asked for anything. We came to a mutually beneficial agreement, Elizabeth. It’s time you move on from,” she waves her hands around, “whatever this place is. It’s time you get a career.”

Betty’s eyes finally snap to the woman’s face. Her lips thin. “I’m happy here, mother.” Her words are rushed, the only sign of agitation.

“You’re happy being the owner of a ratty old coffee shop? You’ll be happy with that for the rest of your life?”

“At least I won’t be the disgraced,  _ ex _ -owner of a dwindling local newspaper,” Betty retorts, then retreats into her office.

Jughead slips his headphones back on, but writes himself a note to check in on her when she comes back out.

She never does.

Ethel runs the counter for her instead, and Jughead leaves with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

~~~

A few days later, that stomach ache turns into a full-on sickness. Not just for him, but for the whole Thornhill party.

Cheryl scrolls through headline after headline on her phone as Archie and Jughead look over her shoulder. Archie’s phone has been blowing up with messages and mentions all morning.

“Who’s Archie Andrews’ New Girl?” had turned into “All You Need To Know About the Lodge Family’s Sordid Past,” and now the tabloids are claiming that Veronica’s only using Archie’s connections to further expand her drug-running ring. The lies on Twitter are even worse.

“She’s going to be okay, right?” Archie asks, voice shaky. He’s worried for her.

Cheryl, too, seems pretty shaken up. She drops her phone in disgust, then turns around to face them. “We have to leave. We have to cut all ties to this place. I love seeing people get dragged on the internet, but this is different.”

It’s different because she cares this time. They all do.

Jughead isn’t opposed to leaving– he hasn’t gotten much writing done anyway. He’s been more distracted in this tiny town than he ever thought he could be.

The paparazzi haven’t busted down Thornhill’s gates yet, but they’ll be here soon, and the three of them need to get out before they do. 

They pack their bags overnight, leaving the mansion behind. Linens are hastily drawn over all the furniture, temperatures are lowered on thermostats around the house, doors are locked, and windows are shut tight.

Archie and Cheryl find seats on the next flight out to Los Angeles, where they both have apartments waiting for them, while Jughead takes the train down to New York City. His office is there. JB and Toni are there. 

He won’t see his best friends for a while.

He won’t see Betty again.

On the bright side, he won’t be hosting online meetings anymore. Somehow, that side doesn’t seem quite bright enough.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you leave any questions, comments (did we enjoy Jug's POV?), concerns, or even just life updates down below. This is a time for us all to come together as a community, and I would love to chat with and support any and all of you.
> 
> My tumblr's @writeraquamarinara if you feel like hitting up my DMs at any time <3


	4. Yes, His Misfortunes Have Been Great Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,' and all that jazz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, darlings! it's been a while, hasn't it? I hope you're all doing well, and that you'll forgive me for taking forever and a day to get this chapter out to you. crossing my fingers the length makes up for the wait.
> 
> quick shout out to my beta, @ithoughtyoulikedmereckless, whom this work is gifted to and who pushed me to keep writing and editing the heck out of this thing. Rach, this chapter would not be here without you. I love you.
> 
> happy reading! as usual, i'll catch you on the flip side.

The numbers blur before Betty’s eyes, zeroes swimming together under her nose. The walls of her office appear to darken. Light grays turn the color of worn-out graphite.

Outside her window clouds solidify from wisps of air, heavy with droplets of water that’ll freeze on their way down.

Betty shoves the bills away from herself, stacking them on the side of her desk for later review. Looking at them now wouldn’t do her any good, not when her eyes can’t distinguish one order of magnitude from another. She shuts her laptop, and the ledger disappears from view.

A weight lifts off her shoulders, if only for a bit. It’ll sink back down, like the pressure of today’s impending storm, once she opens her computer back up again. And she’ll have to, if she’s to get these bills paid on time.

The window panes tremble from the cold, or the wind, or both. The glass keeps the cold out as best it can, though occasional drafts whisper over her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Betty pulls her cardigan tighter over her shoulders, a last line of defense from the bitter chill of the outside world.

“Betty?” Ethel calls from the hallway before knocking quietly. She cracks the door open enough to spy Betty waving her further into the room, then steps inside.

Checking the clock on the wall opposite herself, Betty registers that Ethel’s shift is about to end; she makes to stand, sure that Ethel must be here to remind her of the customers waiting outside, though Betty imagines there can’t be too many on such a dreary Tuesday afternoon.

“Please sit, sit.” Ethel gestures back to Betty’s chair, swallowing a bite of the scone in her hand. Her hair sticks out more than usual today, curls frizzing and only slightly contained by the bright red headband around her head. In compliance, Betty bends her knees and sinks back into her desk chair. Her eyes land on Ethel’s, a question extending like a thread between the two of them.

A cranberry scone—Ethel’s comfort food and first choice for stalling her speeches—implies something bigger than a shift’s ending. 

“Is everything alright?” Betty asks, reaching for the on-switch of her desk lamp. The room brightens a bit, harsh yellow light casting shadows across furniture and features. Ethel’s profile is mirrored in black silhouette against the walls.

“Sure, sure,” Ethel dismisses, though her fingers fidget with the paper napkin that had been wrapped around the dessert. After a beat, she realizes with a sigh that she has no reason to stall any longer and begins to pace the room, fracturing slivers of light with each step.

Betty takes a sip of water from the bottle at her feet. The cold metal burns her fingers.

“I’ll just say it,” Ethel finally bursts, her skater dress swaying at her stocking-covered knees. She stops pacing and stares Betty down, determined. “I’m resigning, and leaving in two weeks. Dilton offered me a job.”

The clock ticks, second hand moving faster than Betty can process Ethel’s words. “As in, a job at the Register?”

“As a reporter, yeah.”

Ethel and Betty had become such close friends while working together on their high school newspaper, the  _ Blue and Gold _ . It now occurs to Betty that Dilton had been after the both of them all this time.

“And you took it?”

Ethel scoffs, as if she’d been expecting Betty’s response but is disappointed by it just the same. “It’s not so bad there, Betty.”

“That’s really what you want to do?”

“Yes.” Her voice is steady, if only a little high-pitched. “No, well, I guess it’s more of an opportunity for a career than working here the rest of—” She pauses, eyes bugging a bit at her own words. “Er, sorry, Betty, I didn't mean—“

Betty cuts her off with a shake of her head, understanding at last. She rises, rounds the desk to come a little bit closer to her friend. “You’re allowed your own dreams, Eth. I’m sorry for not seeing that earlier.”

Ethel’s eyes sparkle, bright against the grays of the room. Her shoulders drop, the conversation finally over, their friendship still intact. She shoots Betty a quick smile while pointing to the door behind her with her thumb. “I’ll, ah, get back out there and finish up for the day. Hopefully no one’s been waiting too long.”

When she’s alone again, Betty cracks a sad smile. It’s snowing now, white specks coating the parking lot outside Betty’s window, the trees in the distance turning into ghostly apparitions.

She’s losing a friend to a career, even though they’ll be working across town from each other. She’s losing a friend to Dilton Doiley, of all people, and she’s sure her mother will have more than a few words to say about it, especially after their recent conversation—barely restrained shouting match, rather—in the shop.

Betty’s jaw hardens, teeth grinding together before she can stop herself. She checks her phone for texts from Polly, her dad, maybe even her mother venturing an apology (Alice would never, Betty knows, but that doesn’t stop her from hoping). The only notifications she has are emails about the week’s delivery schedule, a reply to her Instagram story (a shot of this morning’s latte art: a rose surrounded by swirls), and a few reblogs on her latest tumblr post.

The light at her desk flickers when the wind rattles her window, sweeping snow against the glass. 

Betty drops her head, takes in a breath, then looks back up at the clock. At some point, she’ll have to find a new barista, and someone else to taste-test all the recipes she develops in the back kitchen. Even worse, sooner rather than later, she’ll have to get back to these bills.

For now, though, Betty stands, adjusts her apron, and heads out of the room. She’ll focus on getting through her day one step at a time, each second after the other.

~~~

Her phone buzzes to life on her nightstand, nearly falling off the edge with each continuing vibration. Betty sits up further in bed, setting the book in her lap aside, and checks her device to find half a dozen new notifications, all from Veronica and all in their Instagram DMs.

She’s sent her a post from the gossip magazine Them Weekly. It’s a photograph, a wide shot, of an LA sidewalk in early morning: glass and gold boutiques in the background, palm trees lining the cement. Archie’s unmistakable red hair and shirtless body float in the center of it all, bright and bronze in the hazy sunlight. 

Underneath the post, Veronica’s sent exclamation marks and angry emojis galore. 

**ronlodge**

_ ARE YOU SEEING THIS PLEASE TELL ME I’M HALLUCINATING _

_ he LEFT!!? _

_ and he didn’t even TELL ME!? _

A few minutes later, the anger turns to hurt, and the texts mellow out into lower case ramblings and possible explanations.

**ronlodge**

_ maybe he had a last minute reshoot for his music video? _

_ or he had to visit his parents? _

_ wait.. did you know about this? did Jughead tell you anything? _

Betty almost laughs—as if he’d ever purposely talk to her—but her face hurts, muscles tight from shock and the strain of a long day at the cafe. Her eyes water the more she stares at her bright screen. No, she hadn’t known anything about Archie’s sudden departure from Riverdale. She texts back as much, and then adds:

_ maybe it’s an old picture? _

**ronlodge**

_ B, those are the new Versace prints in that window, the collection came in yesterday _

Right. Of course. Betty should’ve known.

_ I’m sure he’ll be back asap _

She has no way of knowing when he’ll be back for sure, so that last text is a blatant lie.

Veronica tells her that she’s texting Archie at that very moment, to no response. Betty’s lungs shrink deeper into her chest, her friend’s disappointment and hurt seeping into her own bones. He could have a perfectly valid reason for leaving, Betty knows, and yet her chest refuses to expand as it should.

She wipes at her eyes, tired, then sends Veronica a few more texts: reassurances that neither of them fully believes, calming words, and a goodnight, followed by three heart emojis. After a few breaths, Betty moves both book and phone to the nightstand, shuts off her bedside lamp, and settles herself under the comforting weight of the blankets she’d layered as a barrier against the cold.

More than a few mental exercises later, Betty hasn’t managed to peel her mind away from tomorrow and all its inevitable happenings. Veronica’s sure to be in the kitchen at the crack of dawn, all dressed up and ready to hitch a ride to the cafe with Betty. She’ll spend the morning chattering on the phone with Kevin, Ethel, or maybe even one of the two Thornhill cousins, if either of them picks up.

Betty doesn’t hold out too much hope.

~~~

One forearm resting on the marble counter, the other bent at a ninety degree angle to hold up her chin, Betty listens to Veronica recount the past few days: how perfect she and Archie had been together, how much they’d shared and learned and admired about each other.  _ It’d been like a fairytale romance _ , Veronica seems to emphasize every other minute.

_ How could it all have gone so wrong? _

Betty has a few ideas. Jughead comes to the top of her mind, then Cheryl. The two of them working together to break up what gossip rags had called “hashtag Varchie” doesn’t seem so improbable now that she thinks about it.

Betty wouldn’t put it past them. Cheryl, in all her jealousy, and Jughead, in his general assholery, had formed quite a team while here. Their talks and schemes could have extended this far.

The night at the cottage flashes through Betty’s mind, Cheryl’s one-sided flirtations and Jughead’s judgement. His eyes, both dismissive and rapt with attention, had tracked the couple’s movements just as much as they’d ignored Betty’s.

She wouldn’t put it past him at all. What a horrible person, she thinks, and not for the first time, with a face like she’s just drunk unsweetened lemonade.

While Veronica glares at her phone, angry that a certain “Ginger Judas” still hasn’t called her back, a customer comes through the door. He’s short but fast, shuffling past the doorknob that hits right at his waist. His baseball cap, navy blue with white embroidered letters, obscures most of his face until he tilts his head up to catch Betty’s eye behind the counter.

“Two Americanos—and, ah, put ‘em in the same cup.” His fingers fish for cash in his messenger bag, a large and bulky piece that covers half his torso. 

Having turned away from Veronica, Betty nods. “Long night?” she asks, setting up the machine and noting his shaky hands, hollow cheeks, and highly caffeinated drink order.

“You know it.” He shakes his head at the thought. “Just hoping the long nights get us a few shots. No point in coming out here if we don’t.”

It’s then that she notices the accent, rough and clipped, full of drawn-out vowels. The Yankees baseball cap, the casual outfit of a t-shirt and jeans, the bulked-out messenger bag.

“What’s so important up here?” she asks, though she thinks she knows.

“Eh,” he chuckles under his breath, “nothin’ but money.”

In her peripherals, Betty catches Veronica retreating into the back of the store, her back turned to everyone else. She moves gracefully, smoothly, as if she was meant to be coming and going without notice.

Betty sends him a tight-lipped smile as she slides over the Americano in exchange for a wad of bills. “Have a great day,” she bites out as he turns to leave. He doesn’t thank her.

Veronica’s face peeks out from behind the door to the back, eyebrows furrowed as she scans the room. 

“He’s gone, V,” Betty whispers, still watching the front door slam shut.

Veronica visibly exhales, moving through the doorway and back into the front of the store. Her pearl necklace sways as she shakes her head. “Dios, the paps are here? How are we always the last ones to know about anything remotely exciting happening in this town?”

Betty whips around to face her friend, who’s jumped up to sit on the end of the back counter, legs swinging in front of shelves of sugar and tea bags. Betty doesn’t bother shooing her off, instead waving her arms as she rants. “Exciting? Veronica, that could’ve gone terribly wrong. I mean, if he’d seen you—“

“But he didn’t, right? So we’re safe. For now.”

First the situation with Archie, now this? Betty’s willing to bet the two aren’t unconnected. Heat flares up her neck, her blood boiling, and suddenly she’s too hot to be wearing the cable-knit sweater under her apron.

Ceramic mugs clatter against tables, businessmen argue over the phone, Moose’s drill shrieks into the morning. Betty lets the sounds ground her, calm her, as she closes her eyes and turns her head up toward the ceiling. 

“Archiekins must have known they were coming,” Veronica reasons, distracting Betty from fiddling with the thermostat.

A fairly valid reason to leave, Betty thinks, though not an excuse for doing so without letting anyone know—or rather, without letting the two of them know.

“Do you think they’re all gone then, all three runaways in the night?”

Veronica shrugs, really only interested in one, maybe two, of them. She’s tapping at her phone, either sending texts or, even more likely, booking herself a ticket on the next flight to California.

The counter glints under the overhead lights, blinding Betty as her gaze sweeps back out to the customers and tables in the room. It’ll be odd not having a pair of blue eyes stare back at her every day, judging her over the brim of a cup of black coffee. It’s unfortunate, too, as she’d love to give their owner a piece of her mind.

~~~

“You aren’t going to answer that?” Veronica asks, staring at the phone ringing in the cup-holder between them. Her eyes are narrowed, her legs criss-crossed on the passenger seat.

Betty shakes her head, staring at the road. The sun’s coming down on the horizon, bright enough to blind. With one hand, she pulls her sunglasses out of the case next to her phone and puts them on. The other hand guides the car between the dotted white lines and past the vehicles in the right lane.

A sign for the airport looms ahead, dark green and white like the trees and the sunlight behind it.

“It’s my mother,” Betty explains. She still hasn’t looked at the caller ID.

“Ah,” Veronica says. She returns to looking at her own phone, shoulders only dropping when the ringing dies out, replaced by the rumbling of wheels and the power of the engine.

Betty breaks right before hitting a seam in the road, jostling the both of them. Veronica sets her phone into the purse at her feet before settling back down.

“Does she know about Ethel?”

Nails digging into the steering wheel, Betty nods. Her eyes remain locked on the cars swerving and merging onto the highway before them. “I’m sure she does. Dilton tells her everything—or, she forces him to.”

Veronica watches them approach the back of a slower truck. It’s painted bright blue, with a white swoop underneath the word “Glamazon”. 

“That’s why she was so upset that day?”

The thought had run through Betty’s mind the day before, when she’d been staring at a half-empty page on her computer screen.

“She didn’t bring it up then, so no, I guess not. He might not have told her his plans until after he’d gone through with them. I upset her all on my own, with no help from Ethel’s burgeoning career.” Betty sighs, forcing herself to relax as her hands move along the edge of the wheel. “By now, though, I’m sure she’s fully caught up.”

Grimacing, Veronica reaches for the bottle of hand lotion in her bag and applies it to her skin. Heat blasts from the vents along the dashboard, drying up the air.

“I’m really sorry you’re dealing with all this, B.”

“No, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” Betty dismisses, before checking her right mirror and merging into the lane—their exit’s coming up in half a mile.

“You’re sure?” Veronica turns her head to study Betty’s face.

While the sunglasses shield Betty from too much scrutiny, she still makes an effort to keep her lips upturned, to keep the skin between her eyebrows smooth and not wrinkled in concentration.

“Definitely. You enjoy your time in the sun, okay?”

Veronica’s bags line the backseat—designer luggage full of mini skirts and heels that could only be worn in a SoCal winter, and only by Veronica Lodge.

“Oh, I will.” Veronica chuckles, a forced laugh that trickles out as they pull up to the airport’s main entrance. Her hand rests on the door handle, her feet now planted on the floor of the car. When she’d first told Betty that she’d bought a ticket on the next plane to LA, Veronica had been confident that, upon seeing her wrath, Archie Andrews would regret every single one of his life choices. Now, though, her shoulders sag, her purse dragging her right side down with its weight.

She pauses a moment, the door still closed, and the outside world of planes and pedestrians goes on. “What if he doesn’t want to see me, Betty?”

“I’m sure he does, V. I’m sure he’ll call soon. You picked well for once, remember?”

Veronica smiles, her lips thin but eyes amused, and when she readjusts the purse strap on her shoulder she’s back to being herself: stunning, strong-willed, self-confident. Her door now propped open, she steps out and reaches for the rest of her luggage through the back right-side door.

“Text me when you’re at the gate,” Betty reminds her.

Veronica nods, then bends down to eye Betty through the opening. “And you text your mother, okay?”

“Setting a mental reminder as we speak.”

Texting would be better than calling—Veronica knows as much. Calling means hearing her mother’s voice and having to respond immediately, rather than in minute-long intervals.

The conversation will devolve nearly immediately, Betty already knows, as it always does when her mother’s upset with Betty’s life choices—and when is she not? Betty doesn't need to hear what she already knows: that Ethel’s  _ going places  _ and saying yes to big opportunities that she’s actually excited about, while Betty is, put simply, not.

As of right now, Betty’s “career” consists of a notebook full of scene descriptions, half-developed character arcs, world-building details, snippets of dialogue, and not much else. Five-thousand words in a doc can’t be considered a book, or a contract.

Betty tells herself that she’ll keep going, keep writing, and push through to achieve her goals—tomorrow. Right now, driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway, she’d much rather distract herself. With a turn of the volume knob, the chatter of the radio drowns out her thoughts.

~~~

Ethel’s shift ends as Betty’s pulling into the back parking lot, and the two of them spend the night snacking on avocado toast as they clean up. The blinds, pale pink and shut, ward off the darkness beyond the window panes. Slow, winding music spins out of the speakers, the two of them dancing as they sweep, wipe, chew, chat.

“How’s Veronica doing?” Ethel asks while cleaning off the tables. Betty had caught her up on the Archie situation over the phone earlier, while she’d been avoiding her mother and navigating the traffic-laden two hour drive back to Riverdale.

Betty starts with the easy answer: “She should be getting on the plane any minute now, according to her texts.” 

The piano keys play a scale in the background of a Fleetwood Mac song. Betty twirls around her broom as the drum beat comes in.

“She’s angry, you know, rightfully. He should’ve told her that he was leaving,” Betty continues, though she stops herself from sharing her theory that the lack of communication isn’t entirely Archie’s fault.

She can’t think—talk—about that right now. The moment doesn’t need ruining.

To distract herself, Betty focuses back in on the music, letting herself get lost in it. Her body sways with each verse, the task of sweeping mindless and the ins and outs of the store memorized.

“At least she’s going after him, right? And not letting herself get left behind.” Ethel’s voice drifts across the room, barely audible over the instrumental.

“She wouldn’t be Veronica if she’d let that happen.” Her response comes to her immediately; sometimes Betty feels as if she knows Veronica better than she knows herself.

Would Betty let that happen? Would Betty ever love strongly enough to chase after someone, and not just let them slip away? She’d always been the one to dump her boyfriends in the past—not that she’d ever felt anything close to love, the all-encompassing kind, for them. As of right now, she’d only travel across the country for her three closest friends—and her family, their flaws and all. 

The rag stills in Ethel’s hand as she looks up from her work. “Do you think it’ll work out?”

Cheryl and Jughead’s meddling aside, Betty has to trust her instincts about Archie, just as she’d told Veronica to do.

“For her sake, I hope it does,” she responds in a moment between songs. Ethel nods, understanding, and they both look back down at their tasks. When Sara Bareilles sings out into the cafe, Betty and Ethel join her.

~~~

A string of texts from Veronica, all lower case, no emojis:

_ he’s laying low _

_ so of course i can’t go see him _

_ he won't even tell me where he is _

_ i could stomp all over the paps rn and not even feel bad _

_ flying all the way out here for this?? no thank you _

_ heading to the beach instead _

_ comment on my insta post pls it’ll make me feel better _

Betty opens up the app, likes the post (a selfie, with a sunset over the Santa Monica pier in the background—Veronica’s glowing, all rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes) and leaves a few gushing comments, then closes it before going back to her texts.

_ he can’t even sneak you in? _

_ did he explain why he left without letting you know? _

A typing bubble pops up, then disappears. No other texts come through—Betty takes that as a no, to both of her questions.

_ i’m so sorry V  _

_ you don’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve you _

_ enjoy the beach _

_ i love you _

“Troy Bolton still being a coward?” Kevin drawls, his head dipping in overdramatic exasperation. The glass of rosé in his hand tilts towards the floor as he leans forward in his seat on Betty’s couch.

Betty nods, hands clenched around her phone as she checks it for a response from Veronica.

To his right, Ethel scoffs. “God, why can’t men ever catch a clue?” She’s laying across the armchair, her legs bent over the left armrest and her back leaning against the other.

“Oh, honey, your tinder dates that bad?”

“The worst,” she replies, drawing out the O for a few extra seconds. “They can’t hold a conversation, either commandeering it or giving me absolutely nothing to work with.”

Kevin takes a sip from his glass, then shakes his head. “That’s why I don’t even bother talking to them anymore—just get right into the dicking down.” A few inches below his chin, a hickey peeks out from under his turtleneck.

“Did you ever?” Betty asks, thinking back to his high school hook-ups in Fox Forest.

“Touché, Betty.” A laugh bursts from his lips. His head dips back onto the couch cushions, his gaze losing itself in the patterns on the living room ceiling.

The fire dims to Betty’s left, and she rises from her seat to move the logs around in the ashes. She kneels on the tiles by the fireplace, absently staring into the rising flames. They’re a dark orange with blue tips, and she backs away, feeling for the phone on the seat behind her. The flames melt into a bright light on camera but she takes a few pictures anyway.

When she turns around, Kevin’s pouring himself more wine. He extends his hand, offering her the bottle, and she accepts, taking it into the kitchen to pour a glass for herself.

“Did you see the new Vanity Flair issue? With the congresswomen on the cover?” Ethel asks Kevin, most likely as she’s scrolling through her Instagram feed. “I want those yellow pumps.” After a beat, almost as an afterthought, she adds: “And to look and feel that powerful—to use that power for good.”

Ethel only has a few days left at the coffee shop, and then she’ll be off at the Riverdale Register, investigating and writing and building up the career she’s only just started to fight for. The cafe had saved the two of them, both community college graduates whose parents wouldn't have been able to afford much more—not with Alice giving up the Register and Mr. Muggs losing all his savings to Hiram Lodge’s investment schemes. The two girls had worked as waitresses at Pops, with Betty finally saving up enough to open up her shop. Ethel had come along with her, working to support her family.

With this new job, she would finally be in charge of her own life, and Betty couldn’t be happier for her.

She just wishes it wouldn’t mean losing a friend and employee, or having to spend more time at the cafe and less on the novel that isn't writing itself. Betty gulps down half a glass of wine, not wanting to think about the future, and pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking for any texts.

There are no new messages from Veronica, but a few tumblr notifications pop up. Betty reads through them as she sips more wine, then decides to write a post on the spot—a poem about the flames of time licking at her feet, with her photo from earlier attached. She adds a few poetry- and writing-related tags, then posts it to her blog before turning her phone off and leaving it behind on the counter. 

She emerges from the kitchen with another bottle of wine from the fridge; Kevin cheers, waving his empty cup above his head. Betty laughs, hands him the bottle, and sits down between her two friends.

This time, when the fire begins to die out, she lets it.

~~~

The wind blows in Betty’s face, pushing against her with every step. Even though she’s only been outside a few minutes, her ears must be turning red under her knit cap.

Less than fifteen-hundred feet separate the cafe and Femme Fatale, and yet the brisk walk drains her muscles of any energy; Betty struggles to pull the door to Veronica’s boutique open.

Having wiped her shoes off on the welcome mat, Betty steps into the showroom, calling out for her friends. 

“The storage boxes are all out of order, Kev,” Veronica argues in the back, her voice shrill and shaky—altogether out of character.

“Oh please, I didn’t even touch them.”

Betty knocks lightly on the wall dividing the front room from the office and storage space before stepping through the doorway, and Veronica, at the center of a mound of unsorted clothes, pauses mid-flail.

“Hey, B,” she greets, her lips thin and smile lines tight—she still hasn’t recovered from her trip to LA. “What’s up?”

Heat blasts through the vents above them and Betty’s skin tingles with the sensation of being both overly hot and cold at once. 

“Hey, I just wanted to ask Kevin—” He swivels in the office chair he’d claimed as his own during Veronica’s week-long absence, when he’d kept the shop open in between his shifts as sheriff’s deputy. “—Could you take over for me on Friday? I’ll be out of town.“

Kevin’s eyes widen at the news, and Veronica flounders around in the ocean of dresses and skirts as she interjects. “Out of town? Where are you going?”

“Manhattan.” Betty keeps the answer simple, knowing she’ll only be interrupted the longer she explains.

“Manhattan as in the island? In New York City?” Veronica’s managed to stomp her way out of the pile; she now stands in front of Betty, hands on her hips.

Betty nods, notices Kevin eyeing her with interest. “Ethel’s driving down for a few interviews for the paper—she asked if I wanted to come.”

“The big city, huh? That’s great, Betty,” Kevin says. “Let me check my schedule, though.” He folds his hands around an imaginary book, miming pulling it open and flipping through its pages, a smirk on his face. “Wow, you’re lucky I work such odd hours. I mean, what would you do without me?”

Betty clasps her hands together in excitement, then bends down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Kev, I owe you one,” she tells him, but he waves her away, swiveling back to face the sewing machine on top of the desk.

Instead of working, he pulls out his phone, the Grind’em app already open to a picture of a shirtless man, and starts swiping.

“What’s Ethel writing about?” Veronica asks, eyebrow raised, still not convinced.

Ethel had explained the scope of the article earlier that day, when she’d come into the cafe looking as if she’d won the lottery. Betty had heard “road trip to New York City” and been sold fairly immediately.

“Successful women in media, specifically from upstate New York, apparently.”

“That doesn’t even sound  _ too _ soul-crushing.” Kevin finally looks up from his phone. “You sure you didn’t want the job, Betty?”

Betty sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs. “It’s a matter of principle, Keller, and you know that. I will never work for my parents, or an extension of them, in Dilton’s case. My career—my life—will be my own.”

Veronica uncrosses her arms, sets a hand on Betty’s shoulder in support. “We know, B, we just want to make sure you don’t die on that hill.”

“Kev’s looking after the cafe on Friday, right?” Betty reasons. “Every day we stay open is another day of success. So don’t worry about me—I’m living the dream.” Veronica snorts.

Betty turns to leave, zipping up her coat and sticking her knit hat back on her head. “Enjoy your sorting!” she yells out behind her, grinning, before setting out into the cold and the dark. 

She has dinner to cook, plans to make, and more than a few unopened texts from her mother.

~~~

Six o’clock Friday morning finds Betty in front of Ethel’s family home, where she’s parked her car on the cracked asphalt of the driveway. Ethel closes the door behind her, pausing to make sure it doesn’t slam shut and wake the house up, before running across the lawn to the passenger-side door.

(They had decided beforehand that Betty would be driving; Ethel would be too jittery to pay attention to the road.)

Two large lattes sit in the cup-holders, both in thermoses and both boiling hot. Ethel slides into her seat, sets her backpack on the floor and her coat next to Betty’s in the backseat, then takes a sip, closing her eyes.

“You can keep sleeping, Eth. I’ve got it,” Betty says, setting the gear stick into reverse and backing out of the lot. In those capped cups, the coffee would still be hot hours from now.

Her phone rests in a holder connected to the windshield, the map on the screen shifting positions as they drive. A new set of directions pops up, and Betty heads for the entrance to the highway.

“I think I’m too nervous to sleep,” Ethel explains, knocking back more of the drink before tapping her nails against the metallic surface of the cup.

“You’ll do great—I’m sure of it.” Betty turns her head to check her mirrors before merging, even though the roads are mostly empty at this hour.

Ethel hums a response, the sound wavering through the air, unsure of itself.

“Do you want to aux?” Betty offers, knowing it should distract her for a bit. She hands Ethel the cord, then checks her phone screen for the exit number. Betty’s only driven to the city a few times in her life, despite her younger self’s dreams, so she’s yet to memorize the route.

They shuffle through Ethel’s “runaway jane” playlist the entire way, only stopping to stretch their legs halfway through the drive. Betty lowers the volume as they cross the Lincoln Tunnel, the sun emerging as they do, peeking out from behind the skyscrapers in the east.

They step out of the car, having finally found a viable parking spot, ready to walk the three blocks to National Entertainments headquarters. People shuffle by them, heads held high. Betty and Ethel fall into step, though it takes some effort to keep up; the pace of the city runs faster than they’re used to.

The building, all metal and glass, towers above them as they approach the front steps, a security guard waiting inside the revolving doors. Around the lobby, groups of people chat over cups of coffee.

They weave their way towards the security desk, where they’ll need to hand over ID cards and sign in.

“So glad to see you’re here early.” A breathless voice greets them from behind, and Betty grimaces before turning around.

“Dilton!” She feigns cheeriness. “Ethel hadn’t told me you would be here!”

To Betty’s right, Ethel clears her throat. “I, uh, hadn’t been made aware—“

“Yeah, you know, it’s Ethel’s first interview on the job, and we were so lucky to get a meeting today, so I thought I’d just check in.”

Betty turns her head, watches Ethel’s cheeks color. 

“Really, Dilton, you didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense.” He waves her concern away, grinning, then looks around the lobby as if checking to make sure they aren’t being overheard. Leaning in, he half-whispers, “Plus, I couldn’t skip out on seeing my favorite investor.”

“Sierra’s an investor in the paper?” Ethel asks, pulling a notepad and pen out of her backpack before scribbling a few lines on the page.

“No, no, not the paper—I’ve designed an app, like one of those dating ones, but for married couples. It gives them daily advice. Sierra once compared it to Costar, whatever that is.”

Betty turns on her heel, barely keeping in a laugh. She can’t remember Dilton ever having a significant other before. Ethel, on the other hand, continues writing, nodding along as Dilton chatters on about Sierra’s generosity and grandeur.

The security guard at the desk hands them back their IDs, then points them to a man standing behind the row of turnstiles that separates the lobby from the elevators.

“Mister Doiley, Miss Muggs, and Miss Cooper, I presume?”

Betty and Ethel nod. Dilton exclaims, “Oh, an escort!” Ethel blushes.

“Richard Mantle,” he introduces himself, “Miss McCoy’s assistant. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He stands at least a foot taller than each of them, but his bright smile puts them at ease in his presence. He’s slicked his hair back and layered a navy blue polo shirt over a white turtleneck. Betty’s reminded of someone—sharp cheekbones, jet black hair, searching eyes—but she can’t match the features to a face.

“Nice to meet you,” Ethel greets, soft-spoken and admiring. Betty bites down on her bottom lip to contain her knowing smile.

“If you’ll just follow me to the elevators.” When he turns towards the doors behind him, Dilton surges ahead, eager to show off his knowledge of the building. He veers left, towards the elevators that shoot up to the top half of the building, and presses the button.

The doors to the third elevator from left open up, a woman in a pencil skirt and stilettos stepping out as she taps away at her cell phone.

Ethel gapes, then whispers in Betty’s ear, “How does she not accidentally set her heel in the gap between the elevator and the floor?”

“Sorcery,” Betty responds just as quietly, “and a lot of luck.”

Dilton walks in first, hitting the button for the 39th floor. As the rest of them shuffle in, Richard moves to the opposite side of the elevator, pressing the button for the 43rd floor on the second keypad.

“Sierra moved offices,” he explains with a shrug, though Betty catches his small smirk at Dilton’s huff of disappointment.

They stop on the 26th floor, two men stepping in with briefcases in hand. One of them recognizes Richard. “Hey, Pea, how’s it going?”

“Good, good, how’s the family?” Despite the question, Richard doesn’t seem too interested in hearing an actual answer, his eyes focused on watching the floor numbers rise above the man’s head rather than on the man himself.

“Great, thanks for asking,” Suit Number One responds, before saluting the rest of them as he and Suit Two get off at the 28th floor.

“Couldn’t have used the stairs?” Dilton grumbles under his breath, checking his watch once, and then again a moment later.

“Pea?” Betty questions, addressing Richard.

“Everyone around here calls me Pea,” he tells her, almost embarrassed, if the way his shoulders tense up is anything to go by. “After my middle initial.”

When he bends over a bit, a lock of hair falls in front of his forehead, and Betty places him. 

“It wouldn’t happen to stand for Pendleton, would it?” She chuckles, not expecting him to know what she’s referring to. The resemblance is uncanny, now that she thinks about it—Richard’s just the bigger, more muscular, brown-eyed version of the man who’d once described his ideal woman to her.

He pulls away, eyebrow raised. “No, it doesn’t, but Jughead and I do often get mistaken for cousins.”

“You know him then?” Betty blinks at the news, just as surprised as he had been a moment ago.

“Yeah, we’re good friends, actually—went to prep school together.”

Betty doesn’t respond for a few seconds, still processing, then supplies: “Small world, huh?”

He shakes his head, smiling, as the elevator dings and they come to a halt. “I can’t believe it—how do you know him?”

“Just through a few chance encounters.” She doesn’t have the time to elaborate, and really, she’d rather not just yet.

Ethel twists the pen in her hand around her fingers, shoulders tensing as she steps through the open elevator doors. Dilton stares over her shoulder, mesmerized by the bustle of people, the sounds of printers and copy-machines, and the view across the immense glass windows: midtown Manhattan, skyscrapers and all.

Richard- Pea leads them through a maze of cubicles towards a desk that blocks the entrance to a frosted glass room—an office. Along the way, they get stuck behind a man pushing a cart stacked with bundles of newspapers, delaying their arrival even further. Betty reaches over to squeeze Ethel’s hand when she notices her worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

Once they arrive, Pea greets the woman behind the desk: “Mornin’, Melody.”

She looks up from the computer screen, her fingers continuing to type. “Miss McCoy’s ten o’clock?” Melody confirms, and Pea nods in response. She reaches to press a button on her bluetooth headset, then waves them inside.

The door to the office appears heavy, all coated glass and metal, but Pea opens it with one hand, barely putting any of his weight into it.

Sierra McCoy stands tall behind her desk, hands on her hips as she watches them shuffle into the room. Her eyes, narrow and attentive, size up each one of her guests before softening a bit in a strained attempt at hospitality.

Before Pea can make any proper introductions, Dilton stalks over to her desk, reaching out a hand as he nears. “Always a pleasure, Ma’am,” he greets, and Sierra shakes his hand with the tips of her fingers. She invites the rest of them to sit in the chairs before her desk, then takes a seat herself. Betty watches her reach to open a drawer under her desk, both her hands shuffling through pens and papers until she finds what she’s looking for: hand sanitizer.

The chairs, made of a flimsy plastic that only passes as metal when seen from a few feet away, feel out of a place in a room as grandiose as this: a view that goes on for miles, a massive desk and pumped-up office chair that give Sierra more height than anyone else in the room, including Pea.

“Thank you for meeting with us all today—we know how busy you are,” Ethel starts, notepad in her lap and pen still in her hand. She grabs a recorder out of her backpack, then sets it on Sierra’s desk. “You don’t mind if I tape this, do you?” Sierra gives her assent, and Ethel presses the On button before sitting up a bit straighter. Though her foot taps against the mahogany floors in a rhythm, the rest of her fidgeting has stopped. Betty smiles with pride.

Sierra leans back in her chair, gratified by the initial acknowledgement of her precious time. “As I’m sure Melody told you in her emails, we’ll have to make this quick, Miss Muggs, though I do always appreciate an interview—puts the word out there, you see,” she explains to the rest of them, as if they couldn’t figure out her reasoning on their own.

Betty shifts her chair backward, letting Dilton crowd the desk as Ethel begins asking her questions and noting down answers.

A few minutes later—when Betty zones back in to their conversation—Sierra’s recounting her career path: “My promotion came through about six months ago so we moved up to this floor, this office, back then.”

“Wonderful view,” Dilton comments between her sentences.

She barely pauses to address him: “Worth looking at in the summer, I suppose.”

Pea smirks in his seat at the end of the row of chairs.

Sierra continues, explaining how she managed to achieve success as a woman of color in the entertainment industry, while also raising the daughter of an absent father.

“Do you sing or play?” Sierra asks Ethel, though Betty can tell it’s only an opening line for her to gush about her daughter, maybe even play them one of Josie’s tracks.

“Er, no.” Ethel shakes her head—her parents had been too poor for lessons by the time Ethel had expressed any interest in learning. “Betty plays the piano though.”

The muscles in Betty’s jaw tighten at being brought into the conversation—being brought to Sierra’s attention and under her scrutiny—but she plasters on a tight-lipped smile. “Played,” she corrects, “as in I learned as a kid and haven’t practiced in years, though I’m sure I could pick it up again fairly quickly if I tried.”

“How unfortunate. And what is it that you practice regularly, as in professionally, Miss Cooper?” Sierra turns to her, apparently less interested in discussing her pop singer daughter’s success than Betty had originally thought.

“I own and run a small coffee shop in Riverdale,” Betty answers, then continues when Sierra keeps staring, expecting more. “And, uh, I’ve been trying to write a novel for the past year, though who knows if or when it’ll be published.”

“Betty’s a writer,” Dilton interrupts, leaning forward in his chair. She wonders if he means the lack of a descriptor to be good or bad.

“Ah.” Sierra folds her hands together on her desk. “Writing a book. Well, what else should any self-respecting creative do with their time? I hope yours is better than most, however. If so, you should share your work with the world, Miss Cooper. You know, one of my mentees owns a publishing company, he could be of great use to you.”

The connection between Jughead and Pea clicks in her mind, and Betty lets out a harsh chuckle. “Oh, I think I’ve met him. He wouldn't happen to be a Mister Jones?”

Sierra frowns, upset at no longer having the advantage of a connection over Betty. “Yes, actually, I’ll be seeing him later today—he’s  _ finally _ back from this pointless retreat upstate—if you’d like me to organize a meeting.”

Betty’s not sure whether to be more astonished by Sierra’s offer or Jughead’s presence in New York City (she’d thought him in LA, maybe even hiding out at Thornhill, but not here).

“Thank you, but I doubt he’d be too happy to see me.” She attempts a small joke. Sierra doesn’t react, her face blank, and Betty rushes to recover. “Really, though, that’s not necessary.”

“Suit yourself, Miss Cooper,” comes the icy response before Sierra turns back to Ethel.

Silently, Betty pushes her chair back even further, ready to be out of Sierra’s clutches, and Pea leans over in his seat to whisper near her ear: “Why in hell would Jones not want to see you?”

Betty watches Sierra ignore Dilton’s ramblings, shuffling a few papers around on her desk before sanitizing her hands again, then turns to Pea and shrugs. “He called me tolerable the first time we met, hasn’t warmed up to me since, and refuses to be in a room with me any longer than necessary.”

Pea’s eyebrows raise as he lets out a slow breath, tilting his head away from her. “He’s always been terrible at talking to strangers, but wow. That’s a new low.”

“I must be special, I guess,” Betty jokes, though her throat hurts from the whispering. 

“I don’t doubt it,” he responds with a wide smile, “but Jughead usually treats the people he finds special a bit better than that.”

“Oh yes, he and his best friends get along quite well—his friendship with Cheryl is so strong it can only be a bond formed over their mutual dislike of others.”

“Definitely. They do have a few soft spots, though. Jughead told me that they recently helped a friend out—now, I’m no snitch, Betty, so I won’t say who—when he had to flee the Northeast in a hurry.”

“Did Jughead say why?”

“More privacy, less girlfriend, if you get what I mean. She wasn’t helping the situation.”

Betty blinks once, twice, as she takes in the information. She’d been right—Cheryl and Jughead had been behind Archie’s lack of communication—and usually she’d revel in that. Right now, though, her stomach churns and her bones feel too heavy to lift. Her body hurts, sitting in this flimsy plastic-and-scratchy-fabric chair, but she takes care not to show it, sitting up straighter.

“And why was the decision not left up to this friend? I mean, why do Cheryl and Jughead have so much say in his life?” A wrinkle forms between Pea’s eyebrows as he watches her face, and Betty recollects herself. “Maybe it was for the best, you know, since we obviously don’t know the situation’s finer details.”

He takes a moment, searching for an answer, but doesn’t get to speak before Sierra’s pushing her seat away from her desk, standing up in dismissal. Ethel shoves her notepad, pen, and recorder back into the bag at her feet. Dilton reaches out to shake Sierra's hand again, but she turns towards Ethel, offering a few last pieces of career advice before waving them away.

Betty nearly walks into the door on her way out, distracted by her thoughts. Had Veronica worsened the situation? Possibly, but once in LA she couldn’t have caused too much damage. There must have been, and still be, some other objections to her and Archie dating—to Veronica in general. Betty finds the notion ridiculous, laughing under her breath. She must sound hysterical.

Veronica is light, laughter, goodness. She’s brilliant, business savvy, and confident. Jughead couldn’t have taken Archie from her for any reason other than his own dislike for her, and her friends, that he’d founded on his first impressions of them. And how dare he ruin her best friend’s happiness over that?

“Yes, ma’am. Two o’clock.” Melody’s speaking into her bluetooth earpiece as they pass her desk, and she sends them a small wave goodbye. Betty focuses on the floor while they walk out, tracking Pea’s feet as they lead the way, her eyesight too blurry to look up into the haze of fluorescent lighting. Tuning Dilton’s ramblings out, she rubs at her temples and focuses on each individual step.

“You okay, Betty?” Ethel asks over the commotion. A water jug gurgles a few feet away; people fill up their water bottles and discuss the newest conglomerate acquisition.

“Just a headache,” she explains, and it isn’t too far from the truth.

~~~

Ethel has two more interviews to conduct around midtown before they leave later that night, so she and Betty part at the eatery by the entrance to the National Entertainments building. Dilton’s long-gone, apparently having to run a few errands around the city ( _ when in Little Italy _ , he’d explained), leaving Betty to a solitary lunch. 

After sitting down for her meal in a small booth, she pulls a metal cutlery set—an essential travel item—out of the purse at her waist, then sets her phone in her lap, ringer on in case Ethel needs to reach her.

A notification pops up when she first spoons some soup into her mouth, and Betty lets her eyes close to savor the heat and the flavor, clearing her mind, before looking down at the screen.

holidays-in liked your post: found in the fire, burning wood and time left behind…

Betty doesn’t recognize the account name, so they must’ve found her writing through the tags. She smiles, mixing the spoon around in her broccoli-cheddar soup as she stares off into space, blues and yellows and reds mixing together. Sometimes she struggles to fathom that people around the world have read her words—the poems and thoughts she deems interesting—and liked them enough to show their support. 

The validation that would, hopefully, come from revealing more and more of her writing, including excerpts or chapters from her novel, might propel her to sit down in front of her computer each day and write, no matter how much she judges one line from the next. The first thousand words of her novel could be posted a few lines at a time, and maybe she could ask a few of her more engaged followers for feedback.

She’s seen people form friendships online, their conversations moving past writing or beta’ing or the general state of the world and towards all the topics that make up one’s life, the big and the small. She would love a friendship like that—one built upon the outlet of creativity.

Betty pulls up the Docs app on her phone, the one that syncs to the drive on her computer, and finds one of her favorite passages, a short description of a fox in the forest—small and smart, both dangerous and not—and posts it to her blog, tapping in all the writing tags she remembers and then adding a few more:  _ can’t believe i’m posting this but i think it's time — i hope you enjoy this small blurb — it’s from a thing i’m working on _ .

Around her, the cashiers ring up orders, businesspeople take phone calls at their tables, and a few women ask each other if they could please pass the oat milk at the coffee stand. 

“Could I just grab a lid? Thanks.” The gravelly voice breaks through the murmur, crisp and clear in Betty’s ears. It comes from behind the wooden coffee stand, disembodied and drifting, though Betty recognizes it—recognizes him. She keeps staring at her lap, hoping his gaze will skip right over her, render her just another face in a crowd of customers.

The sound of steps rises in volume as someone approaches, then diminishes when they head for the row of tables past her booth. She breathes a sigh of relief, watching the man walk away from her through the lower-right corner of her vision.

“Betty?”

She looks up, startled speechless. Deep-set eyes, underscored by tired, dark purple and blue skin, stare back at her.

“Wow, I, uh, knew you were around— I mean, Sweet Pea told me that you’d been in the office this morning.” (Sweet Pea? The man had too many names.) “But I really didn’t expect to see you in here. I was actually going to try and—” He shakes his head. "Never mind. I’m glad I caught you though.”

Betty raises an eyebrow, grip tightening around the phone still in her lap.

He looks down, past the sandwich bag in his hand, at the booth seat across from her, tilting his head and pursing his lips: a request for permission to sit.

She nods, still silent, watching his every movement. He fumbles, depositing both his sandwich and messenger bag next to him on the seat rather than on the table. His coat, plaid and layered over a white button-down, stays on—evidently, he doesn’t plan on sticking around too long. His beanie, surprisingly, comes off, and Betty can’t peel her eyes from the top of his head.

He takes a moment to collect himself, running a hand through his hair, before asking after her health. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” she answers. He leans in, struggling to hear her over the noise of the lunch rush.

“Glad to hear it,” he takes a quick breath, “because, you know, Sweet Pea also said you’d left with a headache.”

“Sweet Pea talks too much.”

“That he does,” Jughead responds, a brief quirk to his lips. It fades after a few too many moments of silence.

Jughead begins playing with his beanie, rolling the hem between his fingers as he looks down at the table. Finally, he looks up, determined to get the words out. “I don’t mean to take up too much of your time, but please allow me to tell you how much I like and admire you.”

Betty startles away from him with wide eyes, but doesn’t respond—she’s not quite sure how to, her mind reeling.

He rushes to fill in the gaps of her silence. “And it took me so long to tell you because it took me even longer to admit to myself that I liked you, despite our differences—your friends’ proclivities for trouble and your tethers to that town—but I really do like you, Betty, and I’d like to take you out.” His expression is unguarded, hopeful, earnest. “On a date, of sorts.”

Though she remains steadfast in her dislike of him, his speech brings on more emotions than Betty can process: At first, she’s sorry for the pain and embarrassment he’ll have to deal with when she turns him down, but all compassion turns to resentment when he begins listing the reasons why he’d been reluctant to give into his feelings.

She takes a deep breath as he continues to fidget, waiting a few beats before giving her answer.

“I’m not going to thank you, if that’s what you’re looking for.” Right off the bat, it’s not a pretty response—she’s done being pretty, nice, or considerate towards men who don’t give her the same in return. “I’ve never needed your good opinion, nor wanted it, but obviously you’ve bestowed it on me anyway. If you’d like to get over me as soon as possible, may I suggest reading over those  _ differences _ you listed?”

He blinks a few times, face paling and fingers tightening around his beanie as he shoves it back on his head. “Are you mocking me?” His voice cracks, angry and hurt all at once, only making her more furious. She hadn’t asked for this; he’d been the one to ambush her today.

“Are you serious? You’re not mocking  _ me _ , are you? Coming in here just to insult me?” she responds with a brittle laugh. “You told me that you liked me against your will, against your better judgment. How am I the bad guy here?”

Jughead colors at her words, a light pink instead of ghostly white, but he doesn’t attempt to interrupt her.

“And even if I was the bad guy, I have all the reason to be! You should know that. Do you think, if my feelings towards you had been indifferent, or even positive, that I would ever consider going out with the man who’s ruined my best friend’s relationship? Her happiness?”

Both of her hands are on the table now, grounding her as she leans forward, eyes narrowing in on his. 

“I have every reason to think badly of you, and you can’t defend yourself, not in this situation. How dare you separate the two of them like that, leaving her devastated?”

She pauses to search his face for any remorse; she doesn’t find any. His lips form an unwavering line, his eyes dark as he takes in her expression.

“Do you deny doing it?” Betty’s face burns with the strength of her anger, cheeks flushed red and ears hot.

“No, of course not. I did everything I could for him, to get him out of a dangerous situation.”

“Dangerous?” she hisses, loud enough to be heard over the din. “Please. And it doesn’t matter what you say, really, because my opinion of you was decided months ago, back when Jason Blossom first came to town. He told me everything I need to know.”

Jughead startles at Jason’s name, sitting up straighter once he’s composed himself. He leans over the table now too, their faces close—too close. 

“Oh, and Jason Blossom can be trusted, can he?” Jughead forces out a laugh, harsh and biting. His shoulders shake.

Betty’s chest heaves as she takes a heavy breath. “Far more than you,” she accuses. “I can only imagine what the poor man’s been through, cast out and penniless, and all because of you! You ruined his career, and yet you treat him with ridicule.”

“So this is your opinion of me?” His brow furrows, the beanie shifting over his head. They’re close enough that she can stare right into the blacks of his eyes. “Would it have been overlooked had I not hurt your pride with my honesty? If I had covered up the truth with a lie?”

“Of course not,” she answers, words clipped and short—she won’t be wasting her breath. “If you think the way you approached this affected me in any way, you’re wrong; really, it only spared me from having to feel sorry for turning you down. I would have answered the same if you’d behaved in a kinder manner.”

His face crumples, incredulous and mortified, but he stays silent, and so she continues.

“From the very beginning—I could even say from the very first moment I met you—your manners convinced me of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. I’d not known you for more than a month before I felt you were the last man in the world I could ever be interested in.”

He leans in one last time, seconds passing while his eyes are only a few inches from hers—round and wide, pleading pools of blue—before he stands abruptly. With a fluid movement, he slips his messenger bag strap over his head and onto his opposite shoulder, then leans back down to reach for his sandwich.

Betty stares up at him as he straightens out, looming over her and the booth. “I understand perfectly now, thank you for making your feelings so clear—I can only say that I’m ashamed of mine. I apologize for taking up so much of your time, and wish you all the best health and happiness.”

He pulls the beanie down around his ears and tugs the plaid coat closed over his chest before walking away from her little booth, through the aisle of two-person tables and towards the front of the room. The door and walls are glass, panes covered in stickers and signs, and Betty watches through the transparent barrier as he speed-walks a few feet to his right, arriving at the steps of the National Entertainment building. He begins to climb and disappears from view.

He’d liked her all this time? She struggles to believe it, despite today’s events, as she stares into her now-cold soup, which had been pushed into the middle of the table by her agitated hand-movements.

Her headache’s back, raging and acute. She feels like crying.

Instead, Betty wraps her used cutlery, setting it back in her bag, and stands to throw out her soup in a nearby bin. She pulls on her coat, purse, and knit hat before stalking towards the registers, bundled up and starting to sweat under her collar.

“A dead-eye, please.” The barista stares, her hand holding the black sharpie in mid-air, hovering above the paper coffee cup. Betty stares right back, eyes narrowed and eyebrows pinched. The barista rushes to write down the order.

She needs the shots of espresso right now. If she could, she’d add a shot of whiskey too.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd really appreciate you dropping any comments, questions, concerns, or reviews below. It's always lovely hearing from y'all. (and I was a bit nervous about writing this chapter after not visiting this universe in so long, so if anyone wants to reassure me that this wasn't a disaster that would be wonderful, lol.)
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long, but I can't promise a timeline/date just yet. Follow me on tumblr (@writeraquamarinara) for more updates and general tag-whisperings.
> 
> Last, but most certainly not least, this fic won a BFFA for supporting cast, and I am so grateful to you all for that. Thank you for nominating me in the first place, and for then voting on top of that. I hope this chapter delivered a bit more on that front, as an extra thank you (if it didn't.. LOL at myself, i am sorry to disappoint).
> 
> Much love and happiness,  
> Mari

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> And yes, Repair Cafés are most certainly a real thing! They've got so many locations worldwide that I definitely suggest you look up if there's one near you.
> 
> Please leave any questions, comments, concerns, or reviews down below; I really love hearing all your thoughts.
> 
> Or come chat with me over on tumblr! I'm @writeraquamarinara.


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